



Class XI 3 

Book ^ W 

Copyright N° _ 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 






WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 



When Hearts Were True 


BY WILLOUGHBY READE 

it 


Contains the Stories 

HIS LAST SONG FOR THE CHILD'S SAKE 

FORGIVE l)S OUR TRESPASSES THE GHOST OF OAK RIDGE 


New York and Washington 
THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 
1907 


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VV XXc., No. ] 



Copyright, 1907, by 
The Neale Publishing Company 


CONTENTS 

His Last Song., 7 

Forgive Us Our Trespasses... 21 

For The Child’s Sake 69 

The Ghost of Oak Ridge 113 











HIS LAST SONG 



HIS LAST SONG 


The Rev. Robert Walker, rector of old 
Bruton Parish Church, sat in the vestry 
room waiting for the last ringing of the 
bell which would call his people in to the 
afternoon service. He was turning over 
the pages of his sermon, when suddenly 
the outer door was opened and his senior 
warden entered. 

“Mr. Walker,” he said, in a rather dis- 
tressed way, “I fear that we shall have 
no music this afternoon, for the organist 
has just been called to his brother’s — 
some sudden illness the messenger said — 
and the assistant is out of town, as you 
know. There is a chance, however, 
though a queer one. I was discussing 
the matter a few minutes ago with one of 
the vestry, when a stranger stepped up 


IO 


WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 


and offered his services. He says that 
he understands the organ, but there is 
something odd about him which I can’t 
quite make out. Will you see him your- 
self?” 

“Gladly,” said the rector; “it will, in- 
deed, be fortunate if he can help us. 
Show him in please.” 

The senior warden withdrew and in a 
few moments returned with the stranger. 
Robert Walker looked up and saw be- 
fore him, dressed in a faded, threadbare 
suit, a man of perhaps sixty years of age. 
His shoulders were bent; his arms long 
and hanging listlessly down; his hands 
delicately formed and thin. Hair, iron 
gray, falling low upon his neck; cheeks, 
sunken and pallid save for one bright 
spot on each which told of wasting dis- 
ease. Eyes, dark and deep-set, and burn- 
ing with a feverish light; mouth, weak 
with heavy lines about the corners; and 


HIS IyAST SONG 


[I 


over the whole face an expression of un- 
utterable weariness and longing. All this 
the rector saw in the silence which fell as 
the two entered, a silence which the 
stranger was the first to break. 

“I understand, Mr. Walker, that you 
are without an organist this afternoon. I 
shall be glad to play for you if you will 
allow me. For years I was organist in 
one of our large churches, but — I have 
been ill and — unfortunate. My name — 
but no matter — I was born a gentleman 
and am still one I trust, when I am my- 
self, as now. May I help you?” 

The rector’s warm heart was touched 
by the simple confession, and extending 
his hand to the stranger, he said : 

“We shall be greatly indebted to you, 
sir, if you will take charge of our organ 
this afternoon. Mr. Wilson, my senior 
warden here, will show you in, and the 
choir-master will give you the chants and 


12 


WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 


hymns. After the service I shall be glad 
to see you and to thank you again.” 

The stranger bowed, and passing into 
the church seated himself at the organ 
and for a few minutes studied the stops 
and couplers. Then he began a soft pre- 
lude which gradually passed into the 
grander strains of the processional. His 
touch was that of a master, and the choir, 
catching the inspiration of his power, 
sang with unusual sweetness. 

Report of the stranger organist had 
spread through the congregation, and 
when, the service ended, he began to play 
a splendid recessional, they remained 
seated, for never before had the walls of 
the old colonial church echoed to such 
music. Then followed in rapid succes- 
sion several of the best known arias from 
the oratorios, and, as a fitting close, the 
old setting of the evening hymn, “Abide 
with me.” 


HIS HAST SONG 


13 

Then the stranger rose and advanced 
to the reading-desk. 

“My friends/’ he said simply, “I thank 
you for listening so patiently to my music 
this afternoon. To my music, I say, and 
yet it is not mine — it is God’s, he gave it 
to me. It is all I have now, my only 
comfort,” — his voice grew tremulous and 
husky, — “for you see I have not always 
been what I am now. Once I had friends, 
position, wealth, self-respect. They are 
all gone now, and my music alone is left. 
The doctors tell me that I cannot live 
long — perhaps I shall never sit at the or- 
gan again. May I play you, before I go, 
the tune that I love best ?” 

A murmur of assent ran through the 
assemblage, and the stranger, bowing his 
thanks, seated himself again at the key- 
board. 

For a few moments there was silence, 
and then, far away, like the song of some 


14 WH£N HEARTS TRUE 

half-waked bird, the melody began. 
First, two tremulous single notes floated 
into the church, and then began a soft ac- 
companiment which grew in richness as 
the melody went on. A subdued murmur 
of but half-repressed feeling broke from 
the people, and then they grew silent 
again under the spell of that matchless 
melody. 

Like a man who had forgotten himself, 
who had left earth and earthly things far 
behind him, the organist played on. The 
vibrant notes, full of unutterable longing, 
sang themselves into every heart ; for the 
air, soft and slow and solemn as it was as 
the stranger played it, was the South’s 
immortal song. 

He had just reached the chorus when 
there came an interruption. A member 
of the vestry, a wealthy man from the 
West, who had settled in Williamsburg 
only a few years before, stepped from one 


HIS HAST SONG 


IS 

of the front pews, and placing his hand on 
the stranger’s shoulder, said, in a voice 
that was heard all through the church : 

“Stop, sir! you must not play that 
here; we allow nothing but sacred music 
in this church.” 

In a moment the organist was on his 
feet, and, as the people looked, he was 
transformed before them all. The stoop- 
ing shoulders were gone, the jaw was 
heavily set, and the eyes blazed with a 
dangerous light. 

“Nothing but sacred music!” he ex- 
claimed, “and what do you call that ? O 
man, man, who are you that you do not 
know that the blood of a hundred thou- 
sand heroes has made it sacred ? My fa- 
ther died with its music ringing in his 
ears. Sometimes I wish I had : too ; then 
I should not have sunk so low. Not sa- 
cred? Let me tell you, sir, what a gen- 
erous foe thinks of it. Two weeks ago I 


l6 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 


was in a restaurant in the city of Wash- 
ington. A street organ outside began to 
play ‘Dixie/ I sprang to my feet and 
clapped my hands. I was drunk, I may 
as well own it, but I should have done the 
same thing had I been sober. Drunk as 
I was, I knew ‘Dixie/ They tried to 
hustle me out for creating a disturbance, 
but a tall man in a blue uniform sprang 
up from a table near, threw off two men 
who had seized me as he might have 
thrown two children, and cried, ‘Stop! 
Don’t you know that that tune is sacred 
to this man ? I fought against his people 
for three years, and I know what this 
means to him. Put him out and you put 
me out first!’ 

“Yes, those were his words, for though 
he had been my enemy, he was a man, 
and he knew what that old song was to 
me. Not sacred? I played it just now 
as I always play it in church, slowly, rev- 


HIS HAST SONG 


1 7 


erently; — now you shall hear it as we 
used to march to it — to die by it!” 

In a moment he was back on the organ 
bench, every stop out, all the couplers on, 
and before any one could interpose, the 
church trembled to the triumphant strains 
of the old battle-song. 

The vestryman looked appealingly at 
the rector, but the good man said 
nothing — how could he? — he had been 
one of Jackson’s men. 

Gathering power as it went on, the 
melody swelled into grand diapason, and, 
as the organist reached the chorus, a 
wild, weird longing seemed to echo from 
the pipes. Then, with the phrase, “To 
live and die in Dixie,” their came a low 
wail of passionate pleading which made 
the heart ache for the man who played. 
Again came the crashing climax, “In 
Dixie’s land I’ll take my stand” — and 


1 8 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

then, suddenly, the music broke and 
hushed utterly. And looking, the people 
saw the organist reel a moment on the 
bench, and then fall heavily backward 
to the floor. 

Almost instantly the village doctor was 
at his side. Bending down he raised the 
stranger’s head — raised it but to see that 
the lips were tinged with a dark stain, 
but to know that death had set his mark 
on the pallid brow. The minister, com- 
ing forward, whispered to the physician, 
but the doctor shook his head. “His 
lungs are almost gone,” he said; “this 
is probably the last hemorrhage.” 

For a little time the stricken man lay 
there gasping for breath, and then, strug- 
gling into a sitting posture, he clutched 
at his breast. The rector opened the coat 
and from the bosom of the shirt drew out 
a small battle-flag — the flag of the stars 
and bars. The flag was grimed with 


HIS LAST SONG 


19 


powder smoke and dirt, and near the mid- 
dle a dark stain near a small hole told of 
the life blood of some hero. The dying 
man thanked him with his eyes, pressed 
the flag closely to his breast, and mut- 
tered : 

“Don’t you hear them — hear the boys 
marching? Ah, there they come! See, 
they are dirty and ragged and hungry, 
but they’ll follow Marse Robert to the 
end. There comes the flag — my father’s 
flag — he wrapped it round his body to 
bring it from the field — but — they shot 
him — here — for Dixie.” 

The word seemed to bring back the 
music he had just been playing, for in a 
poor quavering voice he began to sing: 

“ ‘Away — away — away — down — south — ’ ” 


The blood rose to his lips and choked 
him, but after a moment, he went on 
again : 


20 


WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 


" ‘In Dixie’s land — I’ll take — my — stand — To 
live—’ ” 

The minister bent forward and covered 
the dead face with the flag. “And die,” 
he added softly, “in Dixie.” 


FORGIVE US OUR TRES- 
PASSES 




FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES 


It was down at the ferry that Uncle 
Jack told me the story, and I write it just 
as it fell from his lips, in that broken, 
drawling tongue which, in these days of 
education for the negro, is fast becoming 
but a memory in the South ; in the 
tongue which we grown-up children love 
so well, for it brings back to us the voice 
of our dear old black mammy as she sang 
us to sleep, years ago, down on the plan- 
tation by the James. 

We had been friends for a long time, 
Uncle Jack and I, for I had frequently 
crossed the river by his ferry on my way 
to a lower plantation in which I had ac- 
quired an interest. From time to time, 
as we slowly crossed the sluggish water, 
he had unfolded to me bits of family his- 
tory, until I really seemed to know “de 


24 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

Marster,” “Marse Frank” and “Miss 
Katie,” and so it happened that one day, 
having time to spare, I asked him to tell 
me their story. 

“Well, seh,” he said, “I nuver wuz 
much at talkin’, fo’ I ain’ got d'e gif’ laik 
some o’ dese hyah free-issue niggers 
whah go to school an’ git so smart dat 
dee cyahn’ do nuttin’ but set ’roun’ an’ 
’spute ’bout things dat none o’ dey busi- 
ness; but ef yo’ willin’ to resk me, I’ll do 
meh bes’ to tell yo’ ’bout de fambly.” 

We seated ourselves on a log, and after 
a few minutes of silence and a prepara- 
tory scratching of his almost bald head, 
he began : 

“Yo’ see, seh, I’se too ole to wuck 
reg’lar now, an’ so I jes’ lives up at de 
place, an’ durin’ de good wedder I runs 
de boat hyah fur what I kin meek. 
’T ain’ dat de Marster an’ Marse Frank 
oon’ teck keer o’ me dough, fur dee gi’ 


FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES 25 

me all I wan’, an’ is glad to, dee say ; but 
I don' laik to ’pen’ on dem when I kin 
wuck some fur mehse’f. De day wuz, 
dough, dat I could plough wid de bes’ o’ 
de han’s an’ use’ t’ lead de urrs so fur wid 
a cradle dat dee say, ’fo’ Gawd, dee 
b’lieve I wuz med o’ iron. 

“We-all’s plantation wuz de bigges’ an’ 
de bes’ in de county, an’ dyah wuz mo’ ’n 
three hund’ed niggers residin’ dyah. 
Some of ’em wuz lazy an’ wuthless but 
dee all love de ole Marster, ’ca’se he ain’ 
nuver sell ’em off de place, an’ ain’ nuver 
let de overseer whup ’em; an’ den dee 
hed plenty t’ eat an’ a good place to sleep, 
an’ yo’ know, seh, dat go long way wid 
a nigger. 

“De ole Marster come f’um Richmon’ 
an’ settle hyah ’long ’bout eighteen 
twen’y. Not long after dat Marse Torm 
an’ me wuz inter juced to de worl’, bein’ 
bo’n on de ve’y same day, an’ dyah wuz 


26 WHEN HEARTS W£R£ TRU£ 

much rejoicin’ at de gre’t-house at de 
’vent. Dat boy sut’n’y wuz a fine one 
wid black hyah an’ eyes, an’ ole Marster 
set a heap o’ sto’ by ’im. He wen’ up 
straight ez a poplar, an’ by de time he 
wuz twen’y-one he wuz de ole Marster 
all over ag’in. Yo’ see hit lay in de 
blood — he teck after he pa jes’ laik de 
shoot teck after de tree whah yo’ done 
cut down. He had all he pa’s ways, too, 
an’ when he meek up he min’ dyah warn’ 
no reasonmunt in de worl’ could change 
’im. So hit come dat de ole Marster 
tu’n de place over to him to teck keer on, 
while he jes’ set back crossleg an’ repose 
he min’. 

“Dee los’ de nex’ two chillun, so dat 
Marse Torm wuz de onlyes’ chile till 
’bout twen’y y’ars befo’ de wah, an’ den 
Miss Gracie wuz bo’n long in de spring. 
De ole Mistis nuver wuz well after dat, 
but jes’ go long gittin’ thinner an’ whiter 


forgive us our trespasses 27 

till she tuck to her baid. Dee done all 
dee could but ’t warn’ no use, she die de 
day after de nex’ Chris’mus. De ole 
Mars ter mos’ ’str acted, an’ ef de chile hed 
die too, I ’spec’ he’d er los’ he min’ ; but 
de baby grow an’ th’ive an’ he try to ’sole 
hese’f wid her. 

“ Jinny, — she wuz meh wife, seh, an’ 
hed bin de ole Mistiss’s maid fur y’ars, — 
she wuz de chile’s mammy an’ she nuss 
’er at ’er own breas’. We hed been 
ma’yed two y’ar den an’ Jinny hed a gal 
o’ ’er own, but I do b’lieve she love Miss 
Gracie de bes’. An’ I don’ blame er’, 
’ca’se dat black little nigger wuz de uglies’ 
chile I uver see. Gawd knows w’y she 
ain’ better lookin’ fo’ ’er mammy wuz 
one o’ de purties’ gals in de county, an’ 
’ristocratic lookin’ fur a nigger; an’ ’er 
daddy — dat me — well, Jinny of’n say 
dat ef I wuz ez good ez I wuz good 
lookin’ I’d er been a angel on uth, an’ 


28 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 


Jinny nuver wuz much fur flatterin’ 
folks — leas’ of all me — dat is after we 
wuz ma’yed. I selec’ Jinny fum de res’ 
de gals fur ’er sweet ways, but after de 
weddin’ dee clabber quicker dan milk in 
a thun’er storm. 

“We name Jinny’s chile ’L,ilah, after 
dat ’ooman in de Bible whah ’ceive Samp- 
son, ’cause she hed ’ceive us so ’bout ’er 
looks. Why, seh, her mouf so big dat 
ef ’er y’ars hed n’ dam hit up, de top o’ 
’er haid would er been a islan’ w’en she 
yell! 

“Marse Torm, he jes’ woun’ up in he 
little sister. He cyah her roun’ an’ pet 
an’ coddle ’er, an’ in de warm evenin’ s 
he set on de gret po’ch wid her in he 
ahms an’ watch ’er while she sleep. An’ 
ez she grow up he 1’arn ’er to talk, an’ 
he call ’er liT sweetheart an’ tell ’er how 
he love ’er. An’ she foller ’im roun’ laik 
a dawg, an’ call ’im ’er ‘Daddy Torm,’ 


forgive us our trespasses 29 

an’ I b’lieve she love ’im better dan she 
did ’er pa. 

“ ’Bout dat time ’t wuz dat Marse 
Torm met Miss Emma. Yo’ see he wuz 
’vited down to spen’ Chris’mus at ole 
Cap’n Nelson’s whah live ’bout thirty 
mile below we-alls. Miss Emma wuz de 
Cap’n’s onlyes’ chile, an’ Marse Torm 
hedn’ see ’er fur y’ars ’cause de Cap’n 
hed been travel’in’ wid ’er ’broad fur he 
health. In course I recompany Marse 
Torm, an’ we rid down dyah de week 
befo’ Chris’mus. 

“Well, dee hed gre’t times fur de nex’ 
ten days er sich a matter; in de mawnin’ 
dee ’d go fox-huntin’, er mebbe ’t wuz 
deah, an’ git back to dinner ’bout dark; 
an’ after dlat dee play kyahds an’ dance 
an’ set ’roun’ in de cornders an’ talk — 
dat is, de young ones whah wuz laikin’ 
one nurr would. White folks don’ meek 
love laik niggers yo’ know, seh; black 


30 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

gal she to’ment yo’ by tellin’ yo’ dat she 
ain’ bodderin’ her haid ’bout yo’, dat she 
a’ready got six niggers jes’ honin’ fur ’er, 
while de truth is, laikly, she ain’ got but 
de beah yo’; but white lady she sw’ar 
she ain’ got nobody to mediate ’pon 
skusin’ o’ yo,’ when she ve’y laikly ’gaged 
to three four urrs right dat minute. Den, 
too, nigger got to pick he chance to talk 
sweet to he gal, fo’ she ain’ alluz ready 
to listen laik white lady. W’y, seh, ef 
a nigger tell he Junie dat he heart gwine 
pit-pat fur ’er while de fiddler playin’ ‘Go 
down, Moses,’ ez I see one o’ de young 
white gen’muns do one night to he 
lady, — I know ’t wuz som’n laik dat, her 
face blossom so, — she tell ’im he better 
put dat pit-pat in he foots an’ not bodder 
her, she warn’ dance. 

“I tuck p’tic’lar noticement o’ de fac’ 
dat Marse Torm alluz hangin’ roun’ Miss 
Emma an’ dat he edmirin’ ’er mightily 


EORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES 3 1 

wid he eyes, jes’ laik a hongry holm , 
whah lookin’ at a piece o’ ven’son dat 
hangin’ higher dan he kin jump. But 
she not one o’ de kin’ whah ’vites yo’, ’t 
all; she sort o’ stand ’im off an’ projic’ 
wid ’im, an’ I b’lieve dat meek ’im wuss. 
I notice dat mens alluz ’predates oomens 
mo’ when dee don’ meek deese’fs too 
plenshus. An’ when de day come fur us to 
return home, an’ dee hed all shuk ban’s 
dyah on de gre’t po’ch an’ said, ‘Er 
Happy New Y’ar,’ Marse Torm linger 
to de ve’y las’ wid Miss Emma, an’ keep 
tellin’ ’er how he had ’joyed hese’f an’ 
dat hit sut’n’y wuz a ve’y fine day. 

“Marse Torm nuver pay no ’tention to 
de ladies befo’, an’ so when he tell de ole 
Marster dat night at supper all ’bout de 
visit an’ meek sich special mention o’ 
Miss Emma, he pa sort o’ laugh an’ say, 
‘Yo’ ’peah to be ve’y fon’ o’ Emma’; an’ 
Marse Torm ’spon’ dat he do laik ’er /e’y 


32 when hearts WERE True 

much, an’ I think dat hit done pas’ likin’, 
but I ain’ say nuttin’. ’T wuz sca’cely a 
week befo’ Marse Torm wuz back at 
Cap’n Nelson’s, an’ he stay so long dat 
de ole Marster say to me one day, ‘Jack, 
we mout ez well git ready fur a weddin’, 
dyah gwine be one soon.’ An’ so ’t wuz. 
Marse Torm kep’ ridin’ back an’ fro fur 
’bout three moil’s, an’ den hit wuz 
’nounced dat dee wuz to be ma’yed in de 
spring. 

“When de time come we all rid down 
to ‘De Oaks,’ — dat wuz de name o’ Cap’n 
Nelson’s place, — an’ dyah we sojourn fur 
a week. Marse Torm ’low dat he nuver 
see de time dreg so, an’ he ax me did de 
days seem so long to me jes’ befo’ I wuz 
ma’yed to Jinny. I say no, but dat dee 
hed dreg mightily sence. But at las’ de 
night come. Dee druv to de chu’ch, 
whah dee hed done fix up laik a flower 
gyahd/’n, an’ Miss Gracie walk in befo’ 


Forgive us our trespasses 33 

Miss Emma an’ drap flowers on de flo’ 
fur her to step on, an’ den Marse Torm 
come out de dressin’-room an’ met ’er at 
de railin’. Hit ermin’ me o’ de day dat 
ole ’Lijah pernounce dat Jinny an’ me 
wuz man an’ wife, an’ I jes’ hope dat 
Marse Torm hed use’ better jedgment 
dan I hed exercise’. Den he teck ’er han’ 
an’ wed ’er wid de ring an’ promise to 
teck keer uv ’er alluz, an’ den dee walk 
out an’ we come back to supper. 

“ ’Long dat summer ole Marster tuk 
de fever. Miss Emma nuss’ ’im faithful, 
but he git wuss an’ wuss an’ talk right 
’stracted. Den dyah come a evenin’ when 
de fever had done lef’ ’im, an’ he open he 
eyes an’ say, ‘Whah Grade?’ Dee brung 
’er in an’ she climb up on de baid an’ put 
’er ahms roun’ he neck an’ kiss ’im. Den 
he say, ‘Sen’ Torm hyah an’ yo’-all go 
out.’ So dee did, an’ Marse Torm wen’ 


3 


34 WHEN HEARTS WE}R£ TRU£ 

in an’ stay a long time, an’ when he come 
out he had Miss Gracie in he ahms an’ 
wuz cry in’. Well, seh, ’bout a week er 
sich a matter after dat, de ole Marster 
die an’ we bury ’im in de graveyard down 
at de chu’ch yawnder by de river. 

“Things wuz mighty sad up at de gre’t- 
house den till ’long in de nex’ summer, 
an’ den dyah come er addition to de 
fambly. Hit wuz a leetle gal an’ dee 
call ’er Katie after ’er gran’ma, dee ole 
Mistiss. Marse Torm, — he wuz de 
Marster now, — he ’vide he ’tention 
’tween Miss Gracie, who wuz now ’bout 
seven, an’ de baby. He love he own 
chile, co’se he did, but I b’lieve he love 
Miss Gracie jes’ ez much. 

“Dyah’s nuttin’ to tell, seh, ’bout de 
nex’ ten er twelve y’ars, fo’ ev’ything wen’ 
on quiet an’ peaceful ’cepin’ dat Jinny git 
mo’ savigrous ev’y day. Den ’bout two 
y’ars befo’ de wah begin, de Pres’dunt 


FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES 35 

’p’int de Marster to go ’broad. Miss 
Katie wuz growed up a fine chile by dis 
time, an’ Miss Gracie, she young lady an’ 
hed done been Richmun’ to school. She 
hed de purties’ voice dis nigger uver 
heah; Gawd, seh, she could jes’ natchelly 
beat a mockin’-bu’d ! Now I don’t know 
nuttin’ ’bout music — dat is de kin’ in de 
books — Jinny say I ain’ got no y’ar, an’ 
when I ’spon’ dat hers big ’nough fur 
bofe uv us, she git mad, an’ I hev to 
dodge de skillet whah she fling at meh 
haid. But ’tis jes’ dat way; I cyahn’ tell 
'S’wanee River’ fum 'Ole Jim Crow,’ an’ 
ef I wuz to try dat chune dee call de 'Ole 
Hund’ed’ I know I oon’ git pas’ fifty er 
sixty noways. 

"One night I heah Miss Gracie singin’ 
som’n’ ’bout, 

“ ‘A prince am cornin’, am cornin’ fur me ; 

To teck me ’way to he home ’cross de sea”; 

an’ I think dat hit would hev to be a 


36 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 


king, let ’lone a prince, befo’ de Marster 
’d let ’er go. 

“Dee wuz packin’ up an’ fixin’ to start 
fur nyah ’bout two mon’s, fo’ de Marster 
gwine teck de Mistiss an’ Miss Gracie an’ 
Miss Katie wid ’im, an’ yo’ know, seh, 
dat de gittin’ ready is de bigges’ paht 
de trip whah oomens is int’ rusted. I wuz 
to drive ’em ez fur ez Norfolk, whah dee 
wuz to tek de boat fur New Yawk, an’ I 
wuz jes’ ez ’cited ez a dawg whah got a 
coon in a holler lawg whah he cyahn’ git 
to, ’cause I nuver hed been down to de 
city. 

“I wuz plunderin’ ’round’ fur sev’rul 
days befo’ dee go, gittin’ meh clean clo’es 
fix’, an’ I wuhy Jinny so ’bout de sewin’ 
an’ all, dat she say I wuss dan one o’ dese 
Jack-in-de-boxes whah de chil’n git in dey 
stockin’ Chris’mus, an’ dat she know ef 
I uver git to heav’n, — which she doubt, 
she say, ’cause I ain’ chile-laik ’nuff laik 


forgive us our trespasses 37 

she, an’ patient an’ long-sufferin', — I oon’ 
sit still long ’nuff to heah de roll-call an' 
know wherr I a lamb er a goat. 

“De evenin’ befo’ we start de Marster 
say to me, ‘Jack, hyah a suit o’ sto’ clo’es 
fo’ yo’ to weah on de trip; yo’ better go 
an’ try ’ em on.’ 

“ ‘Thank yo’ Marster,’ I say, an’ den I 
go back to meh cabin an’ Jinny she dress 
me up, an’ when she finish pinnin’ on dat 
high collar I hed borrer f’um de Marster 
fur de recasion, an’ tyin’ on a blue cra- 
vat dat she had meek f’um a piece o’ one 
o’ Miss Emma’s ole dresses, she ’clar’ dat 
I look ve’y well fo’ me, an’ dat I mought 
be thankful dat a gal wid sich good tas’ 
had descended to ma’y me. Dat ooman 
wuz alluz throwin’ som’n’ up to me ’bout 
how s’perior she wuz to ’er husban ; — dat 
me — an’ I alluz took hit quiet-laik, ’cause 
I didn’ warn’ hev no disruptionment in de 
fambly. Dee say dat Job wuz try’ in 


38 WH£N HEARTS W£R£ TRU£ 

ev’y way to tes’ he patience, but he never 
ma’yed, to Jinny. I look in de glass an’ 
I ’clah I ain’ know wherr dat me or some 
strange gen’ mum, I look so fine. Dese 
hyah preachers need n’ tell me dat clo’es 
don’ meek no diff’ence s’long ez a man’s 
hones’ — dee do, an’ a big one at dat. 

“We start de nex’ mawnin’ an’ two 
days after dat we gits to Norfolk. I 
nuver did see so many houses togerr befo’ 
seh, an’ some of ’em bigger dan de gre’t- 
house on de plantation. I stay close to 
de Marster, fo’ I did n’ warn’ dit los’ ; an’ 
he laugh an’ ax me how I laik de city. 
I tell ’im dat hit wuz too crowded to suit 
me, but dat I feel ve’y free widout Jinny. 

“Dyah wuz a mighty laikly lookin’ yal- 
ler gal in de hotel whah we stay — she wuz 
one o’ de chahmber-maids, she say, an’ a 
free nigger — whah kep’ cyahstin’ ’er eyes 
todes me, fo’ she see dat I b’long to a 
gen’mum an’ wuz high up in s’ciety, ef I 


forgive; us our tre;spasse;s 39 

did live in de kentry. I sort o’ wink back 
at ’er an’ pres’n’y she come over to wyah 
I wuz settin’ by de fyah in de kitchen, an’ 
she say, ‘Howdy? Am dis yo’ fus’ visit 
to de city, sell ?’ She so perlite I mought 
er knowed she warn’ hones’, but I ain’ 
notice dat den; an’ ez I did n’ warn’ ’er 
to think I nuver been out de ole county 
befo’, I say, ve’y high-tone’, ‘Yes, to dis 
city.’ Dat wuz de beginning an’ ’long 
’bout midnight she hed promise to ma’y 
me, an’ I hed meek her b’lieve I hed nuver 
love no one ’skusin’ o’ her — which I hed 
n’ sence Jinny ma’yed me. Den she say 
we seal de cawntrac’ wid a kiss, an’ we 
seal hit sev’rul times. De een’ wuz dat 
de next day when I go to ontie meh hand- 
kercher whah I hed six dollars tie up in 
fur de trip, whah I hed meek by extra 
wuck, de handkercher an’ de six dollars 
wuz bofe missin’, an’ den I ’membered 
how close dat gal hed sot to me, an’ I 


40 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

knowed dat she wuz at dat time 'joyin’ de 
results o’ meh hard wuck, an’ dat what I 
git fo’ foolerin’ wid one o’ dem city gals. 
An’ don’ yo’ know, seh, when I require 
fo’ ’er, I fin’ dat she hed departured 
y’arly dat mawnin’, an’ hed lef’ her love 
fur me — de imperdent piece — dough I 
notice she ain’ lef dem six dollars. 

“On de cornin’ Thursday evenin’ de 
folks lef’. I wen’ down to de boat wid 
’em, ridin’ in front de kerridge wid de 
driver, an’ I jes’ wish dat Jinny could see 
’er husban’ spreadin’ on style. Jes’ befo’ 
dee go ’board, de Marster gi’ me a piece 
o’ paper whah say I dyah wid him on 
business an’ not a run’way, an’ he tells 
me to start back home dat evenin’ an’ to 
teck keer de place while he gone, an’ I see 
de teahs in he eye. I sort o’ choke, 
mehse’f, ez de boat move off, de ladies 
wavin’ dyah handkerchers an’ callin’, 
‘Goo’-by, Unc’ Jack.’ 


forgive: us our trespasses 41 

“I gits home safe two days arfter, an’ I 
wuz powerful glad to see de ole place 
ag’in, fo’ I wuz tired o' travelin’ roun’ an’ 
seein’ de sights, an’ den too dat collar hed 
wuhy me mightily. I recount to Jinny 
an’ all de niggers what I hed see an’ a 
good many things I ain’ see, ’cause I 
know dee b’lieve all I tell ’em, — niggers 
alius does, — ’cep’n I didn’ think hit wuth 
while to mention dat gal whah hed pur- 
loin’ meh six dollars. Dem niggers’ eyes 
mos’ pop when I tell ’em ’bout meh 
drivin’ ’roun’ de city to teck in de sights, 
an’ fum dat day I wuz de'bigges’ man on 
de plantation, an’ even Jinny edmire me 
mo’ dan she uver hed. 

“Ev’ythin’ wen’ on quiet den fur ’bout 
two y’ars, de Marster writin’ dat dee all 
doin’ fine an’ hopin’ we wuz de same, till 
one day Mister Brady, he wuz de over- 
seer, come down to de fiel’ whah I wuz 
lay in’ by co’n, an’ say dyah wuz a wo’, 


4 2 WHEN HEARTS WER E TRUE 


an’ dat de Yankees say dee cornin’ down 
hyah to fight we-all an’ to set de folks 
free. I ax ’im what de name o’ Gawd 
we gwine do when we free, an’ I ’spres- 
sify to him d'at we doin’ ve’y well whah 
we wuz, but he say he don’ know nuttin’ 
mo’ but what he had done respon’ to me. 
Den ’bout six weeks after Ferginia se- 
cede, dyah come a letter fum de Marster 
sayin’ he hed done resign’ he place an’ 
wuz cornin’ home torectly. Suah ’nuff, 
’long in de summer hyah dee come, look- 
in’ jes’ de same ez when I lef’ ’em, ’cep’ 
dat Miss Katie hed growed up mos’ a 
young lady, an’ wid ’em come two 
gen’muns, Cun’l Hargrove, an’ he son 
Frank, who wuz ’bout seventeen. Dis 
hyah Cun’l Hargrove, de Marster tell 
me, hed b’long to de ahmy whah he live, 
but he hed done sell out an’ wuz gwine 
settle in Ferginia. He wuz a ve’y fine- 
lookin’ man, he wuz, wid he curly brown 


FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES 43 

hyah an’ he long moustahsh, an' de Mars- 
ter seem to be ve’y fon’ of ’im. Hit come 
out den dat he wuz ’gaged to Miss Gracie, 
’cause he wife been daid a long time. 
Miss Gracie mighty proud of ’im, an’ 
look at ’im kin’ o’ rev’rent-laik, an’ say he 
de bes’ man in de work ’cep’n’ her big 
Daddy Torm. An’ so de song she sing 
dat night ’bout de prince tu’n out true — 
on’y hit wuz a Cun’l. 

“De Marster say he gwine in de ahmy, 
an’ dough Miss Emma do ’er bes’ to 
’suade ’im outn he notionment, hit ain’ no 
use. De Cun’l say dat he gwine in too, 
but dat he mus’ be ma’yed fust, so dee 
don’ wait to hev de weddin’ in de chu’ch, 
but jes’ ’vites a few frien’s, an’ Mis’er 
Walker come an’ ma’y ’em in de parlor 
front de big mirrer. De Marster say, ‘I 
do,’ when de preacher ax, 'Who give dis 
ooman to dis man ?’ an’ I notice ’im lay he 
han’ on de big fambly Bible whah lavin’ 


44 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

on de table by ’im, ’an’ he lips move laik 
he talkin’ to hese’f. 

“De Cun’l an’ Miss Gracie wen’ to 
Richmun’ fur a week er two, an’ dat night 
de house mighty quiet. Miss Emma, she 
layin’ down wid a headache fur company, 
an’ Miss Katie an’ de Marster in de set- 
tin’ room. De do’ ’twix’ dat an’ de 
dinin’-room, whah I wuz layin’ de table, 
wuz open, an’ I heah ’im say, ‘Chile, yo’ 
hev nuver heah why I love yo’ Aun’ 
Gracie so. Now I gwine tell yo’. Jes’ 
befo’ yo’ gran’pa die he sen’ fur me an’ 
tell me he warn’ me to promise ’im to teck 
keer o’ he li’l’ gal alluz, an’ to swah to ’im 
dat I kill anybody whah hu’t ’er. I swo’ 
to ’im dyah wid meh han’ restin’ on ’er 
haid, an’ to-day, when de preacher ax 
Cun’l Hargrove would he purtec’ an’ keep 
’er alluz an’ he say, “I will,” I jes’ say to 
mehse’f, “Yes, an’ ef yo’ don’ I kill yo’.” 


Forgive us our trespasses 45 

Now run ’way to yo’ murr, chile, I warn’ 
think’. 

“A few days after Miss Gracie an’ de 
Cun’l come home, him an’ de Marster 
wen’ off to Richmun’. Miss Emma an’ 
Miss Gracie mos’ cry dey eyes out fur 
’while, but ’t ain’ no use, an’ bime-by dee 
settle down to pickin’ lint fur de hospitals 
an’ fixin’ things fur de soldiers. Dem 
wuz a bad fo’ y’ars, seh, ’specially after 
de folks wuz sot free, an’ de mens stray 
off an’ de Yankees begin to git closer an’ 
closer. 

“’Bout a y’ar befo’ de s’render Marse 
Frank say he gwine in too ; dat he wuz 
ole ’nuff an’ dat dee need mens. But 
de Mistiss tell ’im dat dee wuz so lonely 
an’ unpertected, an’ de Yankees gittin’ 
so close, dat she think he better come over 
to we-all’s an’ teck keer o’ dem. De Cun’l 
hed done buy de nex’ place an’ Marse 
Frank hed been wuckin’ hit an’ tryin’ to 


46 when hearts WERE true 

git hit fix up; but he say de place kin 
run hitse’f an’ dat he’d come. An’ he 
did teck keer of ’em, ’specially o’ Miss 
Katie; but den she de younges’ an’ of 
co’se need hit de mos’. 

“Den de Marster got wounded so bad 
dat he hed to come home to git nussed. 
He wuz shot in he laig an’ hit wuz six 
mon’s befo’ he git up an’ go cripplin’ 
’roun’ on he crutches. One day while he 
still in he baid, three mens come ridin’ up 
to de gate an’ hitch dey horses, an’ den 
walk up to de do’ an’ knock. Marse 
Frank met ’em an’ ask ’em what dee 
warn’. Dee look s’prise’ to see a man laik 
him dyah, fo’ mos’ all our mens wuz in 
de ahmy, but one of ’em say : 

“ ‘We warn’ de ole rebel Major whah 
hyah.’ 

“ ‘Well, yo’ cyahn’ git ’im’, say Marse 
Frank. 


EORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES 47 

“ ‘Who gwine stop us ?’ de man say 
ve’y bol\ 

“ ‘I is/ Marse Frank say; an’ befo’ dee 
know what he ’bout he done t’row two 
long pistols in dey faces, an’ he say : 

“ ‘Now git out o’ dis, an’ ef yo’ come 
back hyah I’ll kill yo’!’ An’ dee git on 
dey horses an’ ride off, jes’ in time too, 
fur some o’ we-all’s mens comes up 
torectly an’ says dat dee hed p’tic’lar bus’- 
ness wid dem gen’muns, ez dee wuz spies 
an’ bushwhackers. 

“Miss Katie, she standin’ back in de 
hall lis’nin’ all de time, an’ when de ’cite- 
ment hed subside’ hits’ef she wen’ right 
up to Marse Frank an’ she say: 

“ ‘Yo’ is de braves’ man in de worl’, I 
think !’ an’ she hoi’ out bofe her han’s to 
’im. He teck ’em studdy an’ say : 

“ ‘I’d die to teck keer o’ yo’, Katie, I 
love yo’ so ; will yo’ le’ me try to alluz ?’ 


48 when hearts WERE true 

An’ she say, 'Yes/ an’ de bus’ness wuz 
done. 

"Den Gen’l Lee s’render an' de Cun’l 
come home. He look bad, seh; he face 
ve’y raid an’ he talk loud an’ act ve’y 
rough sometimes. Him an’ Miss Gracie 
go back to dey place an’ Marse Frank go 
wid ’em. Den tales got out ez how de 
Cun’l hed tuck to drinkin’, an’ dat he go 
’way fum home an’ stay sometimes, an’ 
nobody know whah he at, an’ dat dyah 
wuz a lot o’ city mens up to he house 
constant. De Marster didn’ heah ’bout it 
’t all fo’ nobody gwine tell him, an’ he 
laig ain’ well ’nuff yit fur ’im to ramble 
’roun’ an’ see fur hese’f. I wuz up dyah 
sometimes, an’ I feel mighty sorry fur 
Miss Gracie, fur I see dat she sufferin’; 
but she one o’ de quiet kin’ whah go on 
an’ don’ say much. 

"All dis time Marse Frank an’ Miss 
Katie cornin’ on fine. He stay at we-all’s 


FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES 49 

a heap, ’cep’ when he pa wuz in one o' he 
tantrums er wuz ’way fum home, fur he 
love Miss Gracie jes’ laik she wuz he own 
ma, an’ he know dat he pa ain’ doin’ right 
by ’er. Den ’bout a y’ar after de wo’, 
Marse Frank ax de Marster fur Miss 
Katie, an’ de Marster say dat he glad to 
hev sich a boy fur he son an’ dat he 
rayther gi’ Miss Katie to him dan to any- 
body he know, dough he cyahn’ give ’im 
much wid ’er, he so po’ now, what wid 
de wo’ an’ he losin’ he niggers; an’ 
Marse Frank say he don’ warn nuttin’ 
else, dat she wuth all de worl’ to him. 
So de day wuz sot an’ he git de license, 
while Miss Katie fix ’er clo’es, an’ things 
go ’long so tell jes’ a week befo’ de wed- 
din’ wuz to be. 

“Den, seh, dyah come a day dis nigger 
’oon nuver furgit. De fambly hed jes’ 
set down to dinner, — I wuz waitin’ on de 


4 


50 WH£N HEARTS W£RE TRU£ 

table an’ I see hit all, — when de do’ bus’ 
open an’ in come Miss Gracie wid ’er 
hyah jes’ fly in’ an’ ’er eyes blazin’ laik 
dee wuz on fyah. She resh up to de 
Marster an’ cry: 

“ ‘Daddy Torm, Daddy Torm, he done 
strike me; he done strike he wife!’ 

“An’ wid de wu’ds she pull ’er dress 
open, an’ dyah, on ’er fyah breas’, wuz a 
gre’t blue mark whah sum’n hed hit ’er. 
De Marster’s face git hard an’ tu’n white 
ez peth, an’ he choke so he cyahn’ say 
nuttin’, but he jes’ gadder ’er in he ahms 
an’ she tell ’im how dat man been ’busin’ 
’er uver sence he come home; an’ how he 
drink an’ gamble wid dem mens, an’ dat 
she hedn’ say nuttin’ tell dat day ’cause 
she love ’im so ; but dat mawnin’ she hed 
done fin’ a letter layin’ ’roun’ fum some 
ooman in Richmon’ whah he hed been 
gwine see, an’ dat when she ax ’im ’bout 
hit he cuss ’er an’ strike ’er wid he fls’; 


forgive us our trespasses 51 

an’ den de po’ chile jes’ lay dyah an’ 
moan an’ say: 

“ ‘An’ I loved ’im so, Daddy Torm; I 

loved ’im so !’ 

“De Marster look laik a wil’ man ez he 
stan’ dyah, wid he han’ clinch’ roun’ ’er, 
an’ I see ’im shake laik a tree whah a 
quick win’ done cotch an’ ben’ back an’ 
fro. Den he say: 

“ ‘Emma, teck keer o’ dis chile tell I 
come back; an’ Jack, git meh horse, an’ 
come wid me.’ 

“Den he hoi’ ’er to ’im fur a minute an’ 
kiss ’er one o’ dem long heart-kisses, an’ 
den he put ’er down an’ I see ’im go to 
he des’ an git he pistol, an’ I know what 
cornin’. I gits de horses ez quick ez I 
could an’ we mounts. Dee run, seh, laik 
dee know dee cyahin’ jedgment, an’ befo’ 
I hed time to draw meh bref deep we wuz 
at de Cun’l’s gate, an’ dyah, front de 


52 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

house, wuz de Cun’l hese’f. De Marster 
go right up to ’im an’ say: 

“ Tse come to kill yo’, yo’ damn 
houn’ !’ 

“ ‘Is yo’, indeed ?’ he ’spon’ ve’y cool, 
an’ put he han’ in he breas’. He nuver 
drawed hit out, seh, fur at dem wu’ds de 
Marster shot ’im, an’ he fell all in a heap 
wid he heart-blood leapin’ out over de 
parf. We wen’ back home den, an’ on de 
steps wuz Miss Emma, waitin’. 

“ ‘Hev yo’ done hit?’ she say, an’ de 
Marster jes’ nod he haid an’ start by ’er. 
But she hoi’ to ’im an’ say : 

“ ‘O Torm, how kin I tell yo’ ? — 
Gracie — ’ An’ den she cry so she cyahn’ 
say no mo’. But seem laik he know what 
she gwine say, an’ he resh into de settin’- 
room, an’ dyah, seh, lay in’ on de sofa, 
wid ’er face laik de snow an’ a smile on 
’er lips, her long gol’en hyah coverin’ de 


forgive us our trespasses 53 

mark dat man hed meek, wuz Miss 
Gracie — daid ! 

“De doctor say dat ’twuz er heart hed 
fail, but I know dat hit broke. 

“Dee ’rested de Marster an’ try ’im fur 
murder, dough ev’ybody say hit wuz a 
was’e o’ time an’ dat dyah warn’ a man 
on de jury dat wouldn’t hev done de same 
thing; an’ suah ’nuff, after I git up an’ 
tell ’em how ’twuz fum de time Miss 
Gracie bus’ de do’ in to de time de Mars- 
ter fin’ er’ daid, dee say he not guilty 
widout leavin’ de room. 

“Den, seh, de trouble begin — hit wuz 
wuss ’n wo’ time. De Mistiss git mo’ an’ 
mo’ poly, an’ at las’ tuk to ’er baid, an’ 
de Marster go ’roun’ all ben’ over, laik a 
man whah cyahin’ a big load on he back ; 
an’ he nuver say a wu’d ’bout hit to no 
one. I b’lieve Miss Katie suffer mos’ ez 
much ez he did, fur of co’se Marse Frank 
nuver come no mo’ after he pa done 


54 WHEN HEARTS W£R£ true: 

killed, an’ she love ’im so hit wuz laik 
tyahin , part of ’erse’f ’way. She ease 
’er min , , dough, by nussin’ Miss Emma 
an' by doin’ a heap o’ good ’mong de 
folks whah lef’, teachin’ ’em de Bible an’ 
to read an’ write. I jine de chu’ch meh- 
se’f, an’ ev’y Sunday I druv ’er dyah. 

“Dis wen’ on fur ’bout fo’ mon’s, an’ 
den dyah come a evenin’ when de Mars- 
ter an’ Miss Katie wuz settin’ out onder 
de trees an’ I wuz weedin’ de flowers, 
when somebody rid up in de yard. Hit 
wuz Marse Frank, seh, — he hed been in 
Richmon’ all dis time, — an’ he wuz 
lookin’ laik a ghos’, he so pale an’ thin. 
He go up to de Marster an’ he say : 

“ ‘Gawd knows what ’tis to speak to de 
man whah kill meh pa, dough I know he 
wuz wrong; but I cyahn’ stan’ dis nd 
longer, seh. Will yo’ le’ me take Katie 
home wid me?’ 


forgive) us our Trespasses 55 

“Den all de Marster’s pen’ up feelin’s 
bus’ out, an’ he say: 

“ ‘I don’ warn’ no mo’ of yo’ blood in 
meh fambly, damn yo’! I mout hev to 
do some mo’ killin’.’ 

“Marse Frank look laik he gwine 
strike ’im, but Miss Katie lay ’er han’ on 
he ahm an’ he stop. He jes’ feas’ he eyes 
on ’er fur a minute an’ den he r’ar he 
haid back laik a horse whah mad: ’bout 
hevin’ to pull a big load up a hill, an’ he 
say : 

“ ‘An’ yo’, Katie?’ 

“She ain’ say nuttin’, she cryin’ so; 
but he smile sad-like ez he tu’n ’way, 
’cause he know dat oomans don’ cry 
’bout yo’ less ’n dee love yo ’ mightily. 

“De nex’ night, after Jinny wuz up- 
sta’rs ’sleep, I wuz settin’ in meh cabin 
thinkin’ ’bout how bad things all wuz, 
when I heah a knock at de do’. I open 
hit an’ dyah, ’fo’ Gawd, wuz Miss Katie ! 


56 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

She tell me dat she hed dat evenin’ re- 
ceive' a letter fum Marse Frank beggin’ 
’er to ma’y ’im wherr or no, an’ sayin’ 
dat he die ef she don’ ; dat she hed show 
hit to de Marster an’ dat hit meek ’im 
crazy-laik. He ax ’er den do she still 
love Marse Frank, an’ she ’low dat she 
do. Den de Marster tell ’er dat ef she 
warn’ ma’y de son o’ de man whah breck 
her Aun’ Gracie’s heart, she no chile o’ 
hisn, an’ dat de sooner she go de better; 
an’ dat when he see er’ min’ sot dat way, 
he fyah drive ’er out de house. She ax 
me den would I go over to Marse Frank’s 
an’ fotch him hyah, ’cause she did’n hev 
nobody but him now, an’ den she begin 
to cry easy-laik, an’ I tell ’er I sut’n’y 
would ef de Marster kill me fur hit. I 
slip out right easy — Jinny oon’ wake tell 
day, dough, ef a cannon go off onder de 
baid — an’ git a horse out’n de stable an’ 
ride over to Marse Frank’s, an’ tell ’im 


FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES 5 J 

dat dyah wuz comp’ny at meh cabin whah 
hed call fur him. He nuver stop to ax 
who ’twuz, but tell me to git he horse 
while he fix some things he need, an’ den 
we travel back fas' ez dem horses could 
run. Miss Katie wuz standin’ at de do’ 
o’ de cabin, an’ he jes’ teck ’er in he ahms 
an’ say : 

“ ‘Thank Gawd, I has yo’ at las’ !’ Dee 
talk sort o’ low fur a few minutes, an’ 
den Marse Frank say to me: 

“ ‘Jack, yo’ stay hyah wid yo’ Mistiss ; 
I be back pres’n’y.’ Den he go out an’ 
I heah ’im go off on he horse. Hit soun’ 
laik he hed nurr horse wid ’im, an’ I look 
out, an’ suah ’nuff he leadin’ mine ’long 
erhine ’im. 

“ ‘Name o’ Gawd, what Marse Frank 
up to now?’ I say to Miss Katie, ’quirin’ 
laik; but she ain’ ’spon’, but jes’ smile 
froo ’er tyahs, an’ ’er eyes look laik big 
stars shinin’ in de mis’. 


58 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

“In ’bout a hour Marse Frank come 
back an’ wid ’im wuz Mis’er Walker, 
whah he done fotch out’n he baid. Den 
I know what gwine happen, fo’ dee oon’ 
need a preacher fur nuttin’ but git 
ma’yed. Marse Frank tell me to wake 
up ’Lilah (dat black chile o’ Jinny’s 
’sleep in de back part de lof’), dat he 
warn’ me an’ her fur witnesses to de 
weddin’. So I gits ’Lilah an’ Mis’er 
Walker he perceed. 

“Hit sut’n’y wuz sweet to see dem two 
whah hed suffer so, gittin’ de satisfaction- 
munt fur all dey trouble, an’ I couldn’ 
he’p drappin’ a few tyahs on de flo’. 
’Lilah, she cry too, ’cause she see me an’ 
think dat de right thing to do. When 
Mis’er Walker finish we bofe meek a 
cross on de paper whah Marse Frank hed 
kep’ layin’ by so long, which he say wuz 
our marks, an’ he write we-all’s names 


forgive us our trespasses 59 

nex’ de crosses an’ tuck de paper in he 
pocket. 

“ After dee all gone I begin to git 
skeered, fo’ I ’spec de Marster shoot me 
ef he fin’ out what I done ; but I feel bet- 
ter de nex’ mawnin’, fo’ when I go up to 
de gre’t-house wid much feah an’ tremb- 
lin,’ he nuver let on dat anything done 
happen, an’ when I say sort o’ innercent 
laik, ‘Whah Miss Katie, Marster?’ he 
face jes’ git dark an’ he say, ‘Yo’ ’ll fin’ 
out soon ’nuff, I reckon.’ 

“He nuver did know tell I tell ’im, who 
teck keer o’ he chile dat night when he 
drive ’er out, ez ’Lilah hed de ve’y oncom- 
mon gif’, dat is in a ooman, o’ bein’ able 
to keep ’er big mouf shet, an’ dat cover 
a heap o’ ugliness to my min’. 

“Marse Frank an’ Miss Katie jes’ ez 
happy ez two lambs frolickin’ ’roun’ in 
de Spring, ’cep’ dat she wuz alius hopin’ 
dat her pa ’ud teck her back, an’ feelin’ 


60 WH£N HEARTS WE)R]$ TRUE 

ve’y sorry fur him an’ ’er ma dyah all 
’lone; an’ she writ ’im two er th’ee let- 
ters dat I brung over, but when he see 
who dee f’um he put em in de fyah wid- 
out readin’ ’em. 

“Den, fo’ long time he so quiet an’ look 
so bad dat I feared he gwine die; an’ he 
talk so ramblin’ sometimes dat I think he 
min’ gittin’ weak. De Mistiss mighty 
po’ly yit, an’ she grieve so much ’bout 
Miss Katie dat seem laik she cyahn’ git 
no better. But one day Mis’er Walker 
come an’ he stay wid de Marster tell way 
late in de night, an’ fum dat day dyah 
come a change in ’im. He brace up an’ 
smile sometimes, an’ he mo’ laik hese’f 
dan he been sence Miss Gracie die. One 
evenin’ I see de tyahs in he eye, an’ when 
he obsarve dat I takin’ noticemunt of ’im, 
he cough an’ blow he nose loud an’ say he 
hed a col’; an’ de cornin’ Sat’d’y night 
when I teck some water to he chahmber, 


FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES 6 1 

I heah ’im talkin’ to hese’f, an’ I jes’ crack 
de do’ open an’ I see ’im wid he haid 
down on de table laik he prayin’, an’ I 
go ’way. 

“De nex’ day wuz Sun’ay. Hit wuz 
de fus’ Sun’ay in May, an’ I ’members 
hit well, fo’ hit wuz de happiest day dis 
nigger uver see. De mawnin’ broke wid a 
red light in de eas’, an’ de sun riz up an’ 
tetch de trees an’ bushes tell dee spahkle 
laik dee wuz covered wid di’monds, an’ 
hit tu’n de water in de river dyah all 
golden bright. De ve’y flowers all smile 
ez I wen’ ’long up troo de gyahden fum 
meh cabin to de gre’t-house, ez dough dee 
wuz tryin’ to say, ‘A happy mawnin’ to 
yo’, Unc’ Jack.’ I didn’ hev much to be 
thankful fur, mo’ dan de fac’ dat I wuz 
still in d'e Ian’, an’ dat I b’long to one o’ 
de bes’ famblys in de State, — less’n hit 
wuz dat de ole ooman wuz gittin’ so bad 
wid de misery in ’er back an’ laigs dat 


62 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

she couldn’ stir roun’ after me so peart 
ez she used to, — but somehow I brighten’ 
up cawnsider’ble, an’ when I wen’ in de 
Marster’s chahmber an’ meek meh bow, 
he ’low dat I lookin’ youn’er an’ han’- 
somer dan he hed see me fur ten y’ars. 

“Hit do me good, seh, to heah ’im run 
on dat way, fur hit soun’ laik de ole times 
come back, when me an’ him use’ to 
frolic an’ hunt an’ fish togerr an’ he use’ 
to devil me ’bout de gals. He sut’n’y wuz 
aggervatin’ ’bout dat. Lawd, I kin heah 
’im now. ‘Jack, yo’ ’s a mighty han’some 
nigger; all de gals meckin’ eyes at yo’. 
I see Jinny smilin’ at yo’ las’ night, an’ 
she won’ look at none de res’ de boys. Ef 
I wuz yo’ I sut’n’y wud set up to ’er.’ Dat 
wuz how I come to notice Jinny fus’ — hit 
wuz all Marse Torm’s fault. Of co’se I 
know dat he jes’ foolerin’ wid me now, 
fo’ I knowed I warn’ handsome no mo’ 
wid half meh teef gone an’ meh haid mos’ 


EORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES 63 

ez beah o’ hyah ez a possum’s tail. But 
what he say ’bout de gals repinin’ fur me 
wuz sut’n’y true ; but dat wuz long befo’ 
Jinny ma’yed me an’ tuk de ambitiousness 
outn me. 

“ ‘Thankee, Marster, same to yo’,’ I 
say; an’ den he laugh an’ say he don’ 
b’lieve I uver gwine git pas’ meh imper- 
dence. Den I shave ’im an’ bresh he long 
Prince A’bert coat, whah he got when he 
wuz ’broad dat time I done deluded to 
when de Pres’dunt sen’ ’im to preach — 
leastways to be a minister , ’cause, ’fo’ 
Gawd, I nuver did b’lieve de Marster 
suah ’nough preach dyah, he sw’ar too 
keen. 

“Den I meek he toddy, after settin’ one 
’side fur mese’f, an’ I wait on ’im at de 
table ez I hed fur y’ars. Jes’ ez he finish 
he breakfus’ he tu’n roun’ sudden-laik an’ 
say : 


6\ WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

“ ‘Jack, git de kerridge, I’se gwine 
to chu’ch dis mawninV 

“Well, seh, I wouldn , a been mo’ 
s’prise’ ef he’d tol’ me he warn’ gwine 
teck he toddy no mo’, an’ den I gittin’ so 
stiff an’ hit been so long sence I druv ’im 
I feared I done los’ de lick. But I wen’ 
out an’ give de ole kerridge a washin’ an’ 
rub de horses down, an’ druv ’roun’ to de 
do’ jes’ ez he walk out lookin’ solemn-laik. 

“Den ’twuz I hed a persentimunt, I did 
fur a fac’, dat som’n’ gwine happen — an’ 
b’lieve me, hit did. We wuz late gittin’ 
to de chu’ch an’ de preacher hed done 
come to whah he say, ‘De Lawd be wid 
yo’,’ when we wen’ in. De Marster didn’ 
go up to de fambly pew, ’ca’se he sacerfice 
he pride any day ’fo’ he’d ’sturb de 
worshup; an’ ’sides, he hadn’ been to 
chu’ch fur so long dat I reckon he feel 
kin’ o’ ’shamed, an’ so he set down way 
back wid me right erhin’ ’im. 


Forgive us our trespasses 65 

“Well, dee sung awhile, an’ den de 
preacher he pray an’ de peoples pray back 
at ’im, an’ den Mis’er Walker teck he tex’ 
an’ hit wuz, ‘But I say to yo’, love yo’ 
enemies.’ Dat man wuz a pow’ful 
preacher, an’ he stir de peoples up jes’ 
laik yo’ stir milk wid a dasher; an’ 
pres’n’y I see de Marster begin to shake 
quiet-laik, ez dough he cryin’. 

“ ‘Gawd,’ I thinks, ‘de Sperit done 
move ’im!’ An’ den I looks ’cross de 
chu’ch, an’ dyah, way back, I see Marse 
Frank an’ Miss Katie, an’ I wonder ef 
dee thinkin’ ’bout we-all an’ ef dee know 
we dyah. 

“Den de preacher stop an’ ’vites all 
whah wish, to come to de bread an’ wine, 
an’ I gadders up meh hat ’spectin’ de 
Marster to go out wid de chil’n an’ dem 
whah couldn’ furgive dey neighbors ; but 
he set still, sell, an’ I settle back an’ say 


5 


66 WHE)N HEARTS WER£ TRUE) 

to mehse’f, ‘Yes, Lawd, de Sperit done got 
’im suah.’ De chu’ch git quiet den an’ 
de peoples git down on dey knees. 

“De light come in ve’y sof’ troo dem 
painted winders, de organ play low an’ 
solemn, an’ de white figger down dyah 
by de cross inside de railin’ go on axin’ 
Gawd to bless de peoples an’ to tu’n ’em 
fum dey sins fur de sake of Him whah die 
on de cross; an’ when he come to dat 
place whah he ax de Lawd to ’cept us ‘not 
weighin’ our merits but pard’nin’ our 
’fences,’ — which Miss Katie done ’splain 
to me mean dat we ax ’im to teck us fur 
jes’ what we wuth, — I couldn’ stan’ hit 
no longer, seh, but fyah bus’ out cry in’. 
De Marster tu’n roun’ an’ say: 

“ ‘Don’, Jack, don’ ;’ an’ I see de gr’et 
tyahs in he eye. 

“Den all de folks wen’ up one after 
’nurr an’ tuk de bread an’ wine tell dee 
wuz all troo ’cep’ Miss Katie an’ Marse 


eorgive us our trespasses 67 

Frank an’ two three urrs. Den dee goes 
up todes de railin’, an’ jes’ ez dee start 
I heah de Marster say to hese’f, ‘I cyahn’ 
do hit, I cyahn’ brelc meh oath’ ; an’ den, 
seh, — dough I dunno how ’twuz, — I feel 
som’n’ teck hoi’ meh heart an’ I ben’ over 
an’ say : 

“ ‘Go, Marster, go now an’ furgive 
while yo’ kin.’ An’ to meh dyin’ day I’ll 
nuver furgit how he face look ez he tu’n 
roun’ to me an’ say : 

“ ‘Well, come wid me, Jack.’ 

“I nuver stop to think how ’t would 
look fur ole nigger to go up dyah wid de 
white folks (we alluz partakes when dee 
is troo, yo’ know, seh), but I jes’ gits up 
an’ de Marster tecks meh ahm, fur he 
laig been bad ag’in lately, an’ we start. 
Mis’er Walker seen us cornin’, an’ dough 
Miss Katie an’ Marse Frank wuz kneelin’ 
dyah a’ ready, he wait. 

“De Marster kneel right down by de 


68 WHEN HEARTS WERE True 

side o’ he chile an’ me nex’ ’im. When 
she notice who ’twuz, she start an’ look 
at ’im kin’ o’ pitiful-laik, an’ den she jes’ 
lay ’er haid down on he han\ Dyah we 
wuz, — de young Mistiss, Marse Frank, de 
Marster an’ dis po’ nigger, — all kneelin’ 
dyah togerr, an’ de chu’ch so still yo’ 
could a heahed a fedder drap. 

“Den de preacher tell us ’bout how 
Chris’ giv He body an’ blood fur us, an’ 
I heah he voice breck an’ trimble, an’ den 
we eat de bread an’ drink de wine. 

“De nex’ thing I know we wuz all back 
in de fambly pew prayin’, de young Mis- 
tiss still holdin’ de Marster’s han’. An’ 
den I heah a voice whah soun’ ez sweet 
ez a angel’s say, ‘De peace of Gawd dat 
pass’ all understandin’ be wid yo’ all 
evermo’ ;’ an’ I knowed dat hit would.” 


FOR THE CHILD’S SAKE 










FOR THE CHILD’S SAKE 


The night was perfect. From the vast 
dome of the sky above, thousands of stars 
looked down upon the quiet earth, bath- 
ing with their soft radiance forest and 
field and stream. A light breeze stirred 
in the pines, while from the thickets was 
borne the mournful cry of the whip-poor- 
wills. There were stars on earth too — 
hundreds of brilliant points which told of 
a sleeping host resting on their arms. 
The heat of the day, the weary march, the 
impending struggle were all forgotten 
and the soldier dreamed of other things — 
dreamed of loved ones far away; of the 
parting kiss the wife had pressed upon 
his lips; of the little hands that would 
have held him back; of the dear old 
mother sitting in her accustomed corner 


72 WH 0 HEARTS WERE TRUE 

of the vine-clad porch of the home he had 
gone forth to defend. 

Fifteen miles to the east burned other 
camp-fires — the fires of the invading 
army. There, too, the soldiers dreamed 
of home; about them, also, played the 
voice of the wind in the trees; on them, 
as well, the quiet stars looked down. 

Along the level, sandy road which leads 
from Williamsburg to Yorktown a soli- 
tary horseman, dressed in Confederate 
gray, was slowly riding. In his fine, dark 
eyes there was a look of intense earnest- 
ness and determination, while the broad 
shoulders and well-knit limbs spoke of 
strength and endurance. A pair of large 
saddle-bags, apparently well filled, were 
fastened to the cantle of his saddle. He 
seemed to be a stranger to that part of 
the country, for at each fork of the road 
he stopped as though to take his bearings, 


FOR THE CHILD'S SAKS 73 

and several times asked of those whom he 
met, if he were in the right way to York- 
town. 

Turning a sharp bend of the road just 
where it ran between high banks down 
to a little stream, he suddenly drew rein. 
Seated in the middle of the road was a 
little girl who seemed to be unconscious 
of his approach. He swung himself 
lightly from the saddle and advanced 
toward her. 

“Good evening, my child,” he said 
kindly, “what are you doing here alone?” 

A pair of sweet blue eyes were raised 
to his, and with a surprised tone she 
answered : 

“I’se makin’ sand pies for my dollies. 
Don’t you see?” 

“Why, certainly,” he said, “how stupid 
of me not to see. But why do you play in 
the middle of the road ; aren’t you afraid 
of being run over?” 


74 WHEN HEARTS WERS TRUE) 


“Dis sand is so pitty an’ white,” she 
replied, “my dollies likes dis sand a heap 
de best.” 

“And what is this dolly’s name?” and 
he raised a rag doll with but one arm and 
features almost worn away, from a heap 
of sand set in a circle of broken glass and 
china. 

“Dat one ? Why, dat’s Jinny Fitzhugh. 
She’s de bestest dolly you ever saw. She 
don’t never cry nor be bad when I puts 
her to bed.” 

“And this one?” he asked, touching a 
diminutive china doll, dressed in a bit of 
pink cheese cloth. 

“Dat’s de tiny baby,” she replied. “She 
dot borned last Christmas in my stockin’. 
Why is so many babies born in stockin’s — 
does you know ?” 

“I’m afraid I don’t,” he answered, 
smiling down at the serious little face; 


for ths child's sakf 75 

“perhaps it’s because a stocking is such 
a nice warm place.” 

“Maybe so,” she said; and then, hold- 
ing up another of her treasures for his 
inspection, she added, “Now, dis one’s 
bad; she wuns away from me mos’ ev’y 
day, an’ I has to send Jeb Stuart after 
her.” 

“Jeb Stuart!” exclaimed the young 
man, “who is Jeb Stuart, I should like 
to know?” 

“Why, he’s my boy dolly; I lef ’ him 
at home,” she added regretfully, “’cause 
he was tired yesterday wunnin’ after dis 
bad one.” 

“Where did you get such a name for a 
dolly?” he asked. 

“My papa named him for me,” she re- 
plied ; “you see he’s in de army wiz Gen- 
eral Stuart. Papa was sick an’ dey let 
him turn home, an’ he brought Jeb to me 
when he tame. But he’s gone back now. 


y6 WHE)N HEARTS WERE) TRUE 

an’ I lives wiz gran’pa an’ gran’ma over 
yonder,” and she pointed to a house, half 
hidden by the trees, about a hundred 
yards from the road. “I ain’t dot no 
mama,” she went on. “I use’ to have 
when I was a baby, but she went away 
up yonder,” and the blue eyes were raised 
to the blue above them. 

The young man did not speak for a 
moment, but looked steadily into the 
child’s face. He saw something there — 
the color of the eyes, the shape of the 
mouth — which took him back to the last 
Christmas spent with somebody at one of 
the old colonial homes on the James, and 
all his heart went out to the motherless 
little one. 

“My mother is gone too,” he said. 
“It’s a bad thing to lose your mother, 
isn’t it?” 

“Yes, dat’s what Jinny Fitzhugh said 


FOR THF CHILD'S SAKE 


77 


de day she dot losted an’ tudn’t find me 
till suppertime. ,, 

He smiled in spite of himself. “But 
you haven’t told me your name yet,” he 
said inquiringly. 

“My name? My name’s Pocahontas. 
She was a Injun, but she was real nice, 
so papa named me her. Does you know 
’bout her?” 

“I believe I have heard of her,” said 
the young man gravely; “but what did 
she do?” 

“Doesn’t you know? Well, I’ll tell 
you. Dare was a man called Mr. John 
Smith, an’ de bad Injuns taught him an’ 
was goin’ to till ’im, an’ Pocahontas made 
’em ’have deyselves an’ let ’im go.” 

“That was nice of her, wasn’t it? 
Well, Miss Pocahontas, I must bid you 
good-by for I have some way yet to go 
before dark. I hope the bad one won’t 


78 WHEN hearts were true 

run away to-day, and that poor Jeb 
Stuart will be rested by to-morrow.” 

“Good-by,” she said; “but where is 
you goin’ ? Don’t you want to stay an’ 
play dollies wiz me?” 

“I wish I could,” he replied, “but I’m 
going to see a gentleman named McClel- 
lan, or at least I’m going to see some of 
his friends if I can.” 

He laid a hand on his saddle as she 
spoke again. “I wish you’d turn to see 
me when you turns back, Mr. ” 

“Page is my name; Jack Page, Miss 
Pocahontas, at your service. I wonder 
if you would give me a kiss before I go ?” 

The serious little face was raised to his, 
and he pressed a tender kiss on the child’s 
lips. 

“Good-by again, little girl; I’ll stop 
when I come back — if I can,” and he 
mounted and rode away. As his horse 
stopped at the stream to drink, he looked 


FOR TH£ CHILD'S SAKL 79 

back. She had gathered her dolls in her 
motherly arms and was slowly taking her 
way to her grandfather’s house. 

As he passed on down the sandy road 
the gravity of the situation came upon 
him more and more strongly as he 
thought of the possible consequences of 
his visit to “McClellan or some of his 
friends.” While sleeping quietly by his 
camp-fire the night before he had been 
roused by an orderly from General 
Johnston’s headquarters with the request 
that he report at once for special duty. 
A council of war had just been held at 
which his colonel, an old friend of the 
commanding general, had recommended 
him as the man for the dangerous duty 
that was to be performed. McClellan had 
been massing his troops for several weeks 
but a few miles below Williamsburg, and 
it had become necessary to learn their 
number and disposition, and also, if pos- 


80 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

sible, the intended line of advance. Gen- 
eral Johnston himself had explained the 
situation to him — the need of sending 
some one into the enemy’s camp and the 
danger of the undertaking. Would he 
go? Not for a second had he hesitated. 
“General,” he had answered, with all the 
impetuosity of youth, “I am ready; if I 
don’t come back, you will know that I did 
my best.” 

Leaving camp about noon that day, he 
had ridden slowly, for he did not wish to 
reach the enemy’s lines until nearly dark ; 
but now he went on more rapidly for the 
sun was getting low. At last he turned 
from the road into a thick clump of pines, 
dismounted, and hitched his horse. It 
was Jack Page who went into the thicket ; 
he who came out was another man — the 
rough jeans clothes, the stooping shoul- 
ders, and the shuffling gait spoke in an 


FOR THE CHILD'S SAKE 


8l 


unmistakable way the farm-hand of the 
poor-white class. 

He rode slowly again until, at last, 
there came to his ears sounds which did 
not belong to the quiet of the pine forest ; 
sounds which made the blood run faster 
and the hand grasp the bridle more firmly. 

“Halt! who goes there?” 

The cry startled him. There in a fence 
corner, by a big pine tree, stood a picket, 
dressed in blue, his gun half raised to his 
shoulder. 

The countryman dismounted awk- 
wardly. 

“Good evenin', sir,” he said with a 
drawl; “be you one er Mr. McClellan’s 
men ?” 

“Yes,” answered the picket, “I am. 
Who are you, and what do you want?” 

“Me? Why, I’m Jim Harris — ‘Silly 
Jim,’ some of ’em calls me, ’cause they 


6 


82 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

says I ain’t right hard. But I don’t hurt 
nobody, I don’t. Could I see Mr. Mc- 
Clellan?” 

The soldier laughed. “I guess not,” he 
said. “But what do you want to see him 
for?” 

The countryman grinned. “Well, yo’ 
see I lives back here ’bout five mile, an’ I 
raises a heap o’ eggs an’ fine chickens an’ 
gyarden truck, an’ I thought mebbe he’d 
buy some ofifen me.” 

The picket thought a moment. “You 
can’t see the General,” he said, “but I’ll 
take you back to the officer of the guard. 
If he passes you in, you can see Captain 
Brown, and maybe you can trade with 
him. You don’t happen to have any to- 
bacco, do you, Jim?” he asked, as they 
turned from the road into a field. 

“Oh, yes, I hev; I raises some mighty 
fine terbacco, an’ I chaws a heap, I does.” 

He drew from his pocket a large twist 


For the: chiu/s sake: 83 

and handed it to the soldier. “Keep hit 
ef yo’ like,” he said ; ‘Tve got plenty mo’ 
at home.” 

After a few questions the officer of the 
guard seemed satisfied. Pointing across 
the field to a number of tents pitched near 
the edge of the woods, he said: “You’ll 
find the Captain over there, I guess.” 

Jim crossed the field slowly and ap- 
proached a little group of soldiers who 
were playing cards near a fire, while 
others were preparing supper. 

“Good evenin’, gentlemens,” he said, 
as he rode up and dismounted ; “kin I see 
Capting Brown?” 

“What do you want with Captain 
Brown?” asked one of the men. “Got 
any orders from headquarters?” 

The newcomer seemed somewhat con- 
fused by the laughter which the question 
excited, and he answered in a stupid sort 
of way: “Not edzactly. I raises a heap 


84 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

o’ eggs an ’ fine chickens an’ gyarden 
truck, I does, an’ I thought mebbe he’d 
buy some offen me.” 

There was another laugh, and the sol- 
dier who had first spoken pointed to one 
of the tents. “You’ll find him in there,” 
he said. 

“That’s a mean trick, Bill,” said an- 
other of the troopers. “Brown’s mad 
anyway, ’bout them fellers that slipped 
out o’ lines last night, an’ he’ll give that 
poor devil thunder. He don’t strike me 
as havin’ much sense.” 

But Jim Harris, unmindful of the in- 
terest he was exciting, shambled up to the 
officer’s tent, and called out in a high- 
pitched, whining voice: 

“Oh, Capting Brown, be yo’ at home?” 

Captain Brown was at home. In a 
moment he stepped out of his tent, with 
anger written on every feature; but be- 
fore he could give that vigorous expres- 


FOR THE CHIEFS SAKE 


85 


sion to his thoughts which the occasion 
seemed to demand, the countryman broke 
out with : 

“Good evenin,’ Capting Brown. I’m 
Jim Harris — ‘Silly Jim,’ some of ’em 
calls me, ’cause they says I ain’t right 
hard. But I don’t hurt nobody, I don’t. 
I raises a heap o’ eggs an’ fine chickens 
an’ gyarden truck, I does, an’ I thought 
mebbe you’d buy some often me.” 

The Captain smiled in spite of himself 
at the queer figure before him. Eggs and 
chickens were none too plentiful in camp. 

“Well, I guess you may bring me some. 
But you don’t expect me to pay you for 
them, do you? Suppose I just send some 
of my men over, and let them help them- 
selves ?” 

“Oh, Lordy, Capting, yo’ wouldn’t 
treat po’ Jim thet er way, would yo’? I 
don’t hurt nobody, I don’t; I jest raises 
a heap o’ eggs an’ — ” 


86 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

“Yes, yes, I know/’ said Captain 
Brown; “but why do you come to us? 
Why don’t you take your stuff to the 
rebel army?” 

“I does, Capting. I wuz over thar day 
befo’ yestiddy, but I heered some o’ the 
men say thet Yankee money wuz wuth 
a heap mo’ ’n ourn, an’ I thought ez how 
I’d come an’ see.” 

“So you were there two days ago,” 
said the Federal officer, with scarcely sup- 
pressed eagerness. “I suppose you saw a 
good deal of the troops, eh?” 

“Yes, sir; I seen a heap o’ soldiers; 
one of ’em tol’ me thar wuz most ten 
thousan’ thar.” 

The officer’s eyes sparkled with pleas- 
ure. Carelessly, however, he spoke again. 
“Well, I suppose they’re having a good 
time of it with Jackson and Stuart both 
there?” 

“No, sir, they ain’t; ’cause they say 


FOR THE) child's sake: 


87 


thet Jackson ain’t come yit, an’ they’s 
afraid he cyarn’ git thar from ’way over 
in the Valley for a week er mo’.” 

“Well, Jim, they’re coming down this 
way soon, I suppose?” 

A gleam of suspicion seemed to flash 
into the countryman’s eye. “I dunno,” 
he replied rather shortly; “but how ’bout 
them eggs an’ chickens an’ gyarden truck, 
Capting?” 

“Well, I guess I’ll take some,” said the 
officer; and then he added: “You’d bet- 
ter get some supper before you go ; it’ll 
be dark before you get home.” 

“I don’t care ef I do, Capting; I kin 
travel a heap better after I get some 
grub.” 

The officer turned to one of his men. 
“Get him some supper,” he said ; and then 
added in a whisper : “Keep him all night 
if you can ; I want to question him again 
in the morning.” 


88 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 


Jim Harris was soon at home with the 
little group around the fire, and proceeded 
to do full justice to the evening meal. He 
submitted to the good-natured bantering 
of the soldiers with an awkward grace, 
while his queer manner and quaint re- 
plies kept them in a roar of laughter. 

Out in the west a dark cloud rose and 
slowly spread itself over the sky. 

“It’s goin’ to rain,” said one of the 
men; “you’d better stay all night, Tim, 
or you’ll get wet and that might spoil 
your good clothes.” 

“I ain’t afraid o’ gettin’ wet, but I 
b’lieve I’ll stay. Hit’s pow’ful dark, an’ 
thar’s a ghos’, they says, thet walks ’roun’ 
back thar near the cross-roads ; hit 
mought git me.” 

“All right,” said the soldier, “you can 
take some o’ them rails an’ make you a 
shelter in that fence corner. Here’s a 
blanket for you, I’ve got another.” 


FOR THF child's SAKE 89 

An hour later the camp was quiet. The 
night was intensely dark, though the 
storm seemed to have gone round. The 
fire had burned down to a few red coals, 
and no other light was to be seen save a 
faint glimmer from one of the officer's 
tents, fifty yards away. Around the fire 
the soldiers lay motionless, but up against 
the fence something was stirring. A dark 
form was drawing itself forward, creep- 
ing on hands and knees toward the tent 
where the light burned. Foot by foot 
the distance was covered, until, at last, the 
form lay close to the rear of the tent. 
Twenty yards away the sentry paced 
slowly up and down. From within came 
voices in earnest conversation. With 
every sense alert the man outside lay still 
and listened. 

“Well, Colonel, I suppose everything 
is ready?" It was Captain Brown who 
spoke. “We march in two days?" 


go WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

“Yes,” was the reply; “the first divi- 
sion by the Yorktown road; the second 
over the new corduroy to the north ; the 
third swings round and strikes Williams- 
burg from the south; with more than a 
hundred thousand men, we ought to be 
in Richmond in a week unless Jackson — ” 

“Jackson is in the Valley.” It was the 
Captain who spoke. “This afternoon a 
half-witted countryman, offering to sell 
some eggs and chickens, came into camp. 
He was in the rebel lines two days ago, 
and he tells me that Jackson was not 
there.” 

A grim smile played over the face of 
the man lying so quietly outside the tent. 

“A half-witted countryman, you say, 
Captain? Where is he now?” 

“Spending the night in camp; afraid 
of ghosts on the road home this dark 
night, so one of the men told me.” 

“Perhaps so, and perhaps — ” 


FOR THE CHILD'S SAKE 91 

‘‘Perhaps what, Colonel ? What do you 
mean ?” 

“I mean, Captain, that you cannot be 
too careful. He may be all right, and he 
may not. Better keep an eye on him.” 

“That's easily done. I’ll put a guard 
over him to-night and I’ll send some of 
the boys with him to-morrow — to bring 
back the chickens and eggs. If he’s all 
right, well and good, if not — ” 

There was an abrupt pause. The 
figure outside drew back stealthily; back 
along the line of fence it crawled, back 
toward the corner of the fence it had left 
a few minutes before. Just as it reached 
the rail shelter and crept into the folds 
of the blanket, a soldier came up. He 
bent over the recumbent form and lis- 
tened to the heavy breathing of the 
sleeper. 

“No harm in him, I guess,” he mut- 


92 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

tered, as he stationed himself a few feet 
away. 

In the east a faint light crept up into 
the sky. Slowly the clouds drifted away, 
and in a little while the moon rose over 
the quiet scene. For a long time Jim 
Harris lay there watching the sentry and 
wondering what the next day would 
bring forth. As he thought, a daring 
scheme evolved itself in his mind, and he 
smiled grimly again. At last he slept — 
slept and dreamed of somebody back in 
the old colonial home on the James. 

The day broke bright and fair. Horses 
were curried and fed, fires replenished, 
and the morning meal prepared. Jim 
Harris, seated on a pine stump, was the 
center of a good-natured group who 
joked him as they ate. 

“That’s a powerful good-lookin’ horse 


for the child's sake 93 

o’ yours, Jim,” said one of the troopers. 
“Where did you steal him?” 

“I ain’t no horse-thief,” said the coun- 
tryman indignantly; “I raised him my- 
self. He’s a mighty good horse, Billy is. 
He kin run all day, he kin.” 

“Well, how’ll you swap? I’ll give you 
mine for him and five dollars to boot.” 

“No, sir, I reckon not. There ain’t 
many horses ’round here like him. He’s 
Kaintucky stock, he is.” 

“But my horse can run, too. He can 
go a mile in two minutes.” 

“I reckon he’d go a mile in one minute 
ef Gineral Stuart wuz to git after you,” 
said Jim, with a broad grin. 

A shout of laughter at his questioner’s 
expense greeted this sally. 

“Better let him alone, Tom,” remarked 
one of his companions ; “he’s got a 
darned lot more sense than he looks to 


94 WHEJN HEARTS WE)RE^ TRU£ 

have. But how about them eggs an’ 
chickens, Jim; did the Captain buy any?” 

“He said as how he guessed he’d take 
some,” answered Jim. “Thar he comes 
now. I reckon he’s goin’ to buy some 
often me. I raises mighty fine eggs an’ 
chickens an’ gyarden truck, I does.” 

Just then Captain Brown, accompanied 
by another officer, walked up to the 
group. “Well, Jim,” he said, “I’ll take 
all the stuff you can spare. And Colonel 
Wilson would like some, too; he is very 
fond of chicken. By the way, you didn’t 
happen to hear the other day if General 
Johnston was expecting us to move up 
his way soon, did you?” 

“No, sir, not edzactly; but I heered 
some o’ the men laughin’ an’ sayin’ yo’-all 
wuz skeered of ’em, an’ thet wuz why 
yo’-all wuz stayin’ here so long.” 

Captain Brown and the Colonel ex- 
changed glances. Then the former said: 


for the: child's sakk 95 

“Well, Jim, I’m going to send some of 
my men with you as soon as drill is over, 
to bring the things back. That will save 
you the trouble of coming down again, 
won’t it ? The horses need exercise, too.” 

If Captain Brown had expected Jim 
Harris to demur at his suggestion, he was 
mistaken, for the countryman promptly 
replied : “All right, Capting, an’ I’m 
much obleeged to you. I’ll show ’em the 
pretties’ little farm this side o’ Williams- 
burg. Them horses does need exercise, 
Capting,” he added, as he turned toward 
the place where some of the men were 
saddling up. “They’re powerful fat ; yo’ 
all must feed a heap o’ corn.” 

The Captain turned aside and called a 
big sergeant to him. “Take twenty men,” 
he said in a low tone, “and go home with 
this man. If he’s all right, buy some of 
his produce and pay him for it; if not, 


g6 when hearts were true 

bring him back — alive, if you can. You 
understand ?” 

The soldier nodded. “You think maybe 
he’s — ” 

“I don’t know ; we can’t afford to run 
any risks, though; be careful.” 

In about two hours the little party set 
out. They turned from the field into the 
road, Jim Harris riding in the rear be- 
tween the big sergeant and another cav- 
alryman. 

The Captain turned to Colonel Wilson. 
“That fellow may be a spy,” he said, “but 
I doubt it. If he is, he ought to be on the 
stage; he’s too good an actor to stretch 
rope.” 

On up the road went the little troop, 
riding slowly. They had covered about 
four miles, when Jim, pointing to a neat 
frame house about two hundred yards 
back in a field, exclaimed : “Here we are, 
men ! That’s my house over yonder. 


FOR the child's sake 97 

Ain’t she a beauty ? Turn right into thet 
lane thar,” and he pointed to a little lane 
on their right. 

They turned in at his direction, until 
only the big sergeant and Jim’s other 
guard were left in the road. Suddenly a 
sharp cry rang out : “Back !” shouted the 
sergeant, “he’s gone!” 

With a vicious cut, Jim had laid his 
switch across his horse’s flank. Like a 
wild thing the animal sprang forward. 
Lying low on his neck, his rider was urg- 
ing him on in a mad race for freedom. 
“Go on, Billy,” he cried, “go on, old boy ! 
They’ll never catch us!” 

Close behind him, uttering yells of 
rage, came the troopers. A bend in the 
road hid him for a moment from their 
sight. Then he saw them again as he 
turned into a long, straight stretch. He 
had not boasted vainly of the speed of the 


7 


98 WH£N HEARTS WE)R£ TRUE) 

splendid horse he rode, and he laughed 
aloud as he saw that he was rapidly leav- 
ing them behind. 

“Good boy!” he shouted, “good old 
Billy; we’re going to make it; we’re 
going to make it !” 

Two or three shots from the men in 
front rang out, and the sand flew from 
the road beside him. In a few moments 
more he was out of range, and he began 
to breathe more freely again. But still he 
rode desperately, and still behind him 
thundered his pursuers. The road nar- 
rowed then, and ran down to a little 
stream, the stream where he had stopped 
the evening before to water his horse. 
Hie dashed through it and on around a 
curve between steep banks. As he did so 
a vision flashed on his sight which made 
his heart turn cold with horror. Seated 
in the middle of the road, with the light 
of the morning on her golden hair, sat the 


FOR the child's sake 99 

child at play again with her dolls. To 
ride around her himself was easy enough 
— but what of the horsemen behind? 
They would be close upon her before she 
would be seen. His mind was made up 
in an instant. A word to his horse, a 
strong pull on the bit, and he was down. 
He lifted the frightened child, and with 
one swing of his powerful arms tossed 
her to the top of the high bank into a 
corner of the fence above. 

“Stay there,” he shouted, “horses are 
coming !” 

As he mounted again, fierce cries came 
to his ears, and looking back he saw his 
pursuers rounding the bend. The big ser- 
geant was riding in front, his bridle be- 
tween his teeth, his carbine at his 
shoulder. A moment later there was a 
sharp report, and he felt his horse stag- 
ger under him. Another hundred yards 
and they were upon him, closing round 

t. OF C. 


100 WHE)N HEARTS WE)RE) TRUE) 

just as Billy stumbled and threw him to 
the ground. In an instant he rose and 
faced them. The stoop of the shoulders 
was all gone, and his eyes flashed with a 
new light. 

The big sergeant laid a hand on his 
shoulder. “You are my prisoner,” he 
said sternly; “you’ll have to go back 
with us.” 

The young man bowed. “I suppose 
so,” he said bitterly. 

With hands bound behind him he was 
placed upon a horse led by one of the 
troopers, and the little party turned their 
faces back toward the camp. As they 
rounded the bend again they came upon a 
child in the road, weeping over a doll 
which she held clasped tightly to her 
heart. As they drew near her grief broke 
out afresh. “You bad mens,” she sobbed, 
“you has done wunned over my Jinny 
Fitzhugh, an’ hurt her awful.” 


for the; child's sake; 


ioi 


“Never mind, little girl,” came a quiet 
voice from the midst of the troop, “she’ll 
get well if you put her to bed and nurse 
her carefully.” 

The child looked up and her face 
brightened. 

“Is dat you, Mr. Page?” she said. 
“Won’t you det down an’ help me fix 
my dollies’ house; dose bad mens has 
b’oken it all up ?” 

It was the big sergeant who answered. 
“No,” he said, “Mr. Page is going back 
to our camp.” And then he added grimly : 
“He wants to sell the Captain some eggs 
and chickens and ‘gyarden’ truck, he 
does.” 

Jack Page bit his lip: “Enough,” he 
said; “you’ve got me down, and you 
needn’t rub it in.” 

Then something dimmed his eye. 
Somebody’s face came before him — 
somebody whom he would never see 


102 \yH£N HEARTS WERE TRUE 


again. “Sergeant,” he said huskily, “I 
want to ask a favor of you. This child 
is a little friend of mine. Hold her up 
here and let me kiss her good-by.” 

The big fellow dismounted. “All 
right,” he replied, and his voice trembled 
a little; “I’ve got one of my own back 
in New Hampshire.” 

The child put both her arms round his 
neck and kissed him. “Good-by,” she 
said. “You mus’ turn back an p’ay dol- 
lies wiz me like you said you would.” 

He looked back as they crossed the 
stream : she was waving him a last 
farewell. 

It was evening. In the glowing west 
the sun, a red ball of fire, was sinking in 
a bank of purple cloud. Around a rough 
table a group of officers were seated, 
while at the lower end stood Jack Page, 
strongly guarded. There was no look of 


eor the child's sake 103 

fear in his fine eyes, however, as he raised 
them toward the setting sun, although for 
him too day was closing, and it would 
soon be eternity and night. 

The court martial was brief. The 
judge-advocate read the charge — acting 
as a spy within the Union lines. Captain 
Brown, the big sergeant, and several of 
the troopers gave their testimony, and 
then the president of the court turned to 
the prisoner. 

“Have you any defense to offer?” he 
asked. 

“Nothing, sir, that could mitigate your 
sentence. I was simply doing what duty 
required of me.” 

The president looked at the officer of 
the guard. 

“Remove the prisoner,” he said sternly. 

Ten minutes later the judge-advocate 
entered the guard-house. In his hand he 
held a paper. “It is a most unpleasant 


104 WHEN HEARTS WKRK TRUK 

duty,” he said, “which I have to perform. 

I am to transmit to you the sentence of 
the court. It is that you be hanged at 
sunrise.” 

The young man started. “I had 
hoped,” he said, “that it might not be 
that — that you might give me a soldier’s 
death.” 

The officer bowed slightly. “I am 
sorry for you,” he replied, “but you know 
the law.” 

He turned and opened the door. As 
he did so Jack Page looked out into the 
glowing western sky. He seemed to see 
there a pair of blue baby eyes which 
smiled upon him as in a benediction. 

Two hours later a strange party rode 
up to army headquarters. It consisted of 
half a dozen troopers with the big ser- 
geant at their head, while at his side rode 
a gray-haired man who supported on the 
saddle before him a little girl. 


for the child's sake: 105 

“A message for General McClellan 
from Colonel Wilson of the Third New 
Hampshire,” the sergeant said to the 
orderly who stood outside the General’s 
tent. The orderly took the letter and 
entered. In a few minutes he returned. 
“The General will see them at once,” he 
said. 

The commanding officer, with the let- 
ter in his hand, turned from his table as 
they were ushered into his presence. 

“Be seated, sir,” he said courteously; 
“my friend, Colonel Wilson, writes me 
that you have come into our lines asking 
to see me on a matter of life and death. 
What can I do for you ?” 

“General McClellan,” said the old man 
simply, “I have come with this little girl 
to ask the life of a man who has been con- 
demned by court martial to be hanged 
to-morrow morning as a spy.” 

“That is a strange request, sir, the life 


10 6 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

of a spy. On what grounds do you 
make it?” 

The old man told his story. He had 
gone to Williamsburg early that day to 
take some supplies to the Confederate 
army. On his return he had heard a 
strange tale from his little granddaugh- 
ter, the child he had brought with him. 
While playing that morning with her 
dolls in the sandy road a horseman had 
dashed up and dismounted; had tossed 
her into a corner of the fence on top of 
the steep bank, and had then mounted and 
ridden on again. A moment later a party 
of horsemen, dressed in blue, had ridden 
at full speed around the bend, and by the 
time she had climbed down into the road 
again had come back bringing the first 
man with them. His hands were tied be- 
hind him, and they had told her that they 
were going to take him back to their 
camp. 


T or the: child's sake: 107 

The old man paused a moment and 
then added, his voice trembling with emo- 
tion : “General, you’re not going to hang 
a man whom you would never have 
caught if he had not stopped to save this 
child’s life?” 

The General was silent a moment ; 
then he turned to the little girl. 

“My child,” he said kindly, “did the 
soldiers see this man throw you out of 
their way?” 

“No, sir,” said the little one, “dey 
didn’t turn till he was back on his horse 
an’ widin’ away. But dey hurt my poor 
Jinny Fitzhugh awful; dey wode wight 
over her, de bad mens did. You tan see 
how dey hurt her,” and she held up her 
doll for the General’s inspection. 

He took the doll and examined her 
carefully. “I see,” he said sympatheti- 
cally, “they did hurt her dreadfully, and 


108 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

they might have ridden over you, eh? 
What is your name, my child ?” 
“Pocahontas, sir/’ she answered. • 

“And what is the prisoner’s name ?” he 
said with a smile, turning to the old man. 
“It ought to be John Smith.” 

“No, sir, it is Jack Page; at least so 
he told the child when he passed her in 
the road yesterday on his way down to 
your lines.” 

“So you are old friends, eh?” said the 
General to the child. 

“Yes, sir,” she replied, “an’ he said 
he’d turn back an’ p’ay dollies wiz me. 
I wish you’d let him turn.” 

General McClellan turned to the old 
man again. “Do you know who it was 
that captured this man?” he asked. 

“Yes, sir; it was the sergeant who 
brought us here.” 

“That will do,” said the General. “I 
do not doubt your story,” he added, “but 


eor the child's sake 109 

I must speak to the sergeant and also to 
some of my officers a little later. You 
must stay with us all night. The orderly 
will show you to a spare tent. Get the 
child to sleep as soon as you can, for if 
I am able to do anything we must be up 
early in the morning. And now send the 
sergeant in." 

When the big fellow rode away at the 
head of his troopers he bore a message 
to the brigadier-general who had pre- 
sided at the court martial: “Delay exe- 
cution of spy to-morrow morning until 
you hear further from me," it ran. 

* * * * * * 

The day was breaking. There was an 
unusual stir in the camp, for the time of 
inactivity was over. To-day the army 
was to move on Williamsburg. But it 
was not the preparations for the start 
which most interested the men of Colo- 
nel Wilson’s regiment. Before they 


IIO WH£N HEARTS TRU£ 


moved, one of those terrible scenes, pos- 
sible only in time of war, was to be en- 
acted before their eyes. 

Through the long night Jack Page had 
tossed restlessly on his rude bed, his 
hands clasped helplessly together, his lips 
moving in silent prayer. At last a faint 
ray of light crept in through the little 
window. They would soon be coming 
for him now. At the thought his heart 
sickened within him, and a deathly pallor 
gathered on his brow. But it was only 
for a moment. They should never see 
him like this; he would show them how 
a brave man can die. 

Tramp, tramp, tramp — faint at first, 
but every moment growing louder. They 
were close outside the guard-house now. 
Then the door opened and the officer of 
the guard came in. “Come,” he said, 
“are you ready?” 

With a firm step Jack Page followed 


FOR THE CHILD'S SAKE 


III 


him out, and stood quietly with his eyes 
fixed on the ground. Then there was a 
sudden cry ; a child's voice rang out 
sweet and clear: “Oh, Mr. Page, de 
General says you may turn home an' p’ay 
dollies wiz me." 

She was in his arms in a moment more. 
What did it mean? Was he dreaming? 
He raised his eyes from the child’s face, 
and there, close before him, he saw a little 
group of officers. Even as he looked, one 
of them dismounted and advanced toward 
him with outstretched hand. 

“Permit me, Mr. Page," he said, “to 
shake hands with the man who yesterday 
endangered his life to save that of a little 
child. I can trust such a man, I am sure, 
not to reveal anything he may have 
learned while in our lines. You may go 
back to your command, and when you see 
General Johnston tell him that ‘Little 
Mac’ doesn’t hang men like you." 





THE GHOST OF OAK RIDGE 


8 


the ghost of oak ridge 

I 


About three miles east of the old town 
of Williamsburg, Virginia, lies the Oak 
Ridge Settlement. Before the war be- 
tween the States it was part of a pros- 
perous plantation owned by Judge Wil- 
liam Berkeley, but the two armies, mov- 
ing over it again and again in the Penin- 
sula campaign, had laid it waste. Then 
came a forced sale, for the Judge had lost 
heavily by the war, and the land was 
taken up by worthless negroes and a low 
class of whites who lived in a hand-to- 
mouth way on the scanty produce of the 
worn-out fields. 

The houses in the Settlement were in 
bad repair, and spoke eloquently of the 
utter worthlessness of their owners. In- 


Il6 WH£N hearts w£r£ true 

deed, had you visited Oak Ridge three 
summers before the year of the fever — 
the year when the voodoo mystery was 
solved — you would have found but one 
house which could lay any claim to re- 
spectability of appearance. This was a 
two-story cabin built near the summit of 
the slight ridge from which the Settle- 
ment took its name, and at a distance of 
perhaps half a mile from the main cluster 
of houses. A neat paling fence enclosed 
the little garden, and a well-kept gravel 
walk, edged with old-fashioned flowers, 
led from the gate to the front door ; while 
the cabin itself had been newly shingled 
and whitewashed. 

Here lived Uncle Ben and Aunt Char- 
lotte, in other days house servants of the 
Berkeleys. At the sale, the Judge had 
bought in for them the cabin and enough, 
land for garden purposes, and here the 
two old people lived comfortably enough, 


the ghost of oak ridge 


ii 7 

frequently helped by contributions of 
clothes and money from “de ole Mars- 
ter.” For years Uncle Ben had been as 
good natured an old darky as ever told 
stories to the children around the winter’s 
fire; he had always led the dances at 
corn-shuckings and Christmas festivities, 
and so it was that all his worthless neigh- 
bors, black and white alike, were on the 
friendliest terms with him. But suddenly 
a great change took place in the old man. 
All his good nature disappeared, his vis- 
its to the Settlement ceased, and to his 
neighbors’ greetings as they passed his 
cabin he answered in a muttering jargon 
that was meaningless to them. Some- 
times the passerby observed him walking 
round and round a large kettle, under 
which a slow fire burned, chanting to him- 
self meanwhile a weird incantation, and 
from time to time throwing into the 
kettle little bunches of herbs and bits of 
queer-looking flesh. 


Il8 WHUN HEARTS W£R£ TRUE) 


A change took place also in the house 
and its surroundings. Instead of flow- 
ers and climbing vines, half a dozen tall 
poles were set up, and from these dangled 
numbers of old bottles of all sizes and 
shapes, bunches of many-colored feathers, 
squirrel tails, streamers of rag and rib- 
bon, strings of buckeyes and bits of col- 
ored glass. The windows and gables of 
the house were ornamented in like man- 
ner, the whole effect being curious in the 
extreme. A lame calf and a deformed 
pig sprawled about on the little grass plot 
before the house, while a large black cat 
with only one eye was often seen at the 
old man’s heels. And worse still — the 
woods at the back of the house began to 
be haunted by the figure of a woman in 
white, a figure that had been seen at dif- 
ferent times by at least a dozen people. 
And so it did not take the Settlement 
long to make up its mind that Uncle Ben 


the; ghost otf oak ridge: 119 

was possessed of an evil spirit and had 
taken to voodooism. 

The old man’s friends deserted him at 
once. Not for untold wealth would one 
of them have entered his house even by- 
daylight. Children who wandered near 
it ran screaming home when the old man 
approached them, and once a stranger, 
who had stopped to ask his way, told af- 
terward in the Settlement that he had 
heard a weird, crying sound in the cabin 
like the sobbing of a child. 

The matter, of course, reached Judge 
Berkeley’s ears, and on one or two occa- 
sions he dropped in on the old man to see 
if he could find out anything that would 
lead to a clearing up of the mystery. But 
Ben’s reply was always, “ ’Tain’ no use, 
Marster, I jes’ cyahn’ he’p it; an’ ef hit’s 
all de same to yo’, I’d ruther yo’ woudn’ 
come down hyah, ’ca’se hit meek me feel 
so bad.” 


120 WH£N HEARTS W£RE) TRUE) 

And so the Judge gave it up, and for 
nearly two years old Ben was left to him- 
self. 

Then came the drought and with it a 
pollution of the water supply, and the 
fever broke out, — typhoid in its worst 
form, — a spiteful, wasting fever that 
found easy lodgment in the cabins of 
Oak Ridge. Victim after victim it 
claimed, until the wretched people became 
panic-stricken. There were no nurses, no 
delicacies, nothing but suffering, disease, 
death. And through it all George Ber- 
keley, the Judge’s only son, rode night 
and day like an angel of mercy, to do 
what medical skill could do for these suf- 
fering creatures. 


II 

For three months now the fever had 
raged, and Dr. Berkeley, riding one after- 
noon along the sandy road that led from 


THE GHOST OE OAK RIDGE 


121 


Williamsburg to the Settlement, felt 
keenly in his heart the despair which fol- 
lows unsuccessful though persistent ef- 
fort. Was his treatment correct? Were 
there means he knew not of for combat- 
ting the disease? Would not some one 
else have been able to do more? 

Asking himself such questions as 
these, he approached the house of Sam 
Williams, an ignorant, superstitious ne- 
gro, whose youngest child was desper- 
ately ill. He entered without knocking, 
to find the room empty save for the sick 
child that tossed restlessly on a low pal- 
let in one corner. He had barely time 
to wonder what this meant, when he 
heard some one talking at the back of the 
cabin, and in a moment he recognized 
Sam’s voice: 

“Dyah ain’ no doubt ’bout it ’t all; 
we done got all de evidence we needs. 
Dis hyah fever wuz started by dat damn 


1 22 WH£N HEARTS TRU£ 

voodoo, Doc’ Ben, ez he call hese’f. Doc’ 
Berkeley needn’ tell me nuttin’ ’bout hit 
bein’ in de water, fo’ I knows better. 
Ain’ my cow dies lahs summer jes’ ’ca’se 
she git in he gyarden? Ain’ John Bas- 
come break he laig de ve’y day he meet 
Ben in de road? Ain’ dat ghos’ alluz 
ha’ntin’ dem woods back o’ he house, an’ 
ain’ de fust two whah die wid de fever 
dem liT chillen o’ Buck Henry’s whah he 
meet one day in de woods an’ tech ’em an’ 
say, ‘I wish I could tek yo’ home wid 
me’ ? What he wan’ dem chillen fur yo’ 
s’pose? I b’lieve he gwine kill ’em. Ain’ 
ev’ything go wrong in de Settlement uver 
sence he tuk to voodooin’? No, seh, hit 
no use talkin’ — ef dis chile o’ mine die, 
I’se gwine git up a crowd an’ lynch ’im. 
Dyar’s plen’y ’ll go.” 

Then Dr. Berkeley heard a woman 
break out wildly: 

‘‘An’ ef yo’ mens ain’ got de grit, 


The ghost of oak ridge: 123 

dyah’s ’nuff oomens hyah to hang ’im, 
an’ dee’ ’ll do hit too.” 

And then came a voice that sounded 
like Tom Simpson’s, the worst character 
among the white men of the ridge : 

“You women needn’t bother; I reckon 
we can ’ten’ to the matter. I’d like to 
know what he’s got in that cabin o’ his, 
anyway.” 

Then retreating footsteps were heard 
and the next moment the mother entered 
the room. She explained in a confused 
way that she had been over to a neigh- 
bor’s for something needed, and then she 
took the medicine from the doctor’s hand. 

“I don’t think there will be any change 
before to-morrow,” he said as he walked 
to his horse. “When it comes, though, 
we shall know something definite, for 
better or worse.” 

Another visit took him several miles 
into the country below Oak Ridge, and it 


124 WHSN HEARTS W£R£ TRU£ 

was nearly ten o’clock when he turned 
back into the main road just west of the 
Settlement. He might have enjoyed the 
beautiful night had it not been for the 
great weight upon his mind, but as it 
was he rode along gloomily enough. 
Suddenly, near the outskirts of the town, 
his horse stopped, wheeled half around, 
and stood quivering with fright. And 
looking up, George Berkeley saw the fig- 
ure of a woman, dressed in white, flit 
across the road about a hundred yards 
before him and enter the woods on the 
left. “The ghost of Oak Ridge!” he 
muttered. “Pshaw! — I’m getting ner- 
vous from this strain. But why should 
the mare have started so?” 

And with a touch of his spur he put 
the animal into a gallop that quickly 
brought him home. 


TH£ ghost or oak ridge: 125 

III 

A full moon rising almost red in the 
hazy, Indian-summer air, shed its light 
upon the road that ran from the Oak 
Ridge Settlement, first through a piece of 
dense woods and then between open fields 
up to Uncle Ben’s cabin. The only 
sounds that broke the stillness were the 
hooting of an owl, the mechanical notes 
of the katydids, and the occasional howl- 
ing of a dog. Down in the Settlement 
the lights gradually went out, and you 
might have thought that there, too, all 
was at rest. But look again. What is 
that long, dark line that winds along the 
lower road, that enters the woods, that 
comes out again on the upper side ? 
Stealthily, silently, it moves along be- 
tween the fields, keeping in the shadows 
of the cedars which line the fence row. 
As it comes nearer you can see the sepa- 


126 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

rate figures that make up the line, and 
as they cross that bit of brightly lighted 
road you can count them: three, five, 
seven, ten, twelve, sixteen, twenty. Men 
travel thus only when some wild and 
wicked purpose animates them, when 
murder fills each heart. At last they halt 
within a hundred yards of the voodoo’s 
cabin and a whispered consultation takes 
place. 

In a few moments three of them step 
out from the crowd and move toward the 
house, two of them carrying axes and the 
third a rope. At the gate they pause a 
moment as if to gather courage to pass 
the enchanted ground. Then there is a 
rush, a heavy beating on the door, a win- 
dow raised above them, and a voice: 

“W’at yo’ wan’ ? W’at de trouble 
down dyah?” 

It is Sam Williams who answers: 


the ghost oe oak ridge 127 

“We wan’ yo’, an’ dyah’ll be trouble 
’nuff I reckon w’en yo’ comes down.” 

There is a pitiful pleading in the voice 
of the old voodoo as he replies: 

“Now, mens, don’ do nuttin’ to trouble 
Doc’ Ben; he ain’ nuver bodder yo’; go 
on ’way an’ ten’ to yo’ own business.” 

There is an angry cry from the party 
below and a pine torch is quickly lighted. 

“Now come out o’ that or we’ll burn 
you out !” shouts one of the white men. 

“No yo’ won’; voodoo house won’ 
burn,” answers Uncle Ben bravely. “Yo’ 
better go ’long or de ghos’ ’ll git yo’.” 

The words were hardly spoken when a 
cry rang through the house, a cry that 
sounded at first like a child’s, but which 
grew in a moment until it filled all the 
cabin; a cry so weird, so wild, so hor- 
rible that the attacking party fell back to 
the gate and waited there almost breath- 
less. And then the door swung slowly 


128 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

open and a figure draped in white, with 
face like the snow, with flowing hair and 
slowly waving arms, stood upon the door 
step before them all. With a yell of ter- 
ror they fled, stopping only when the spot 
where they had left their companions 
was reached. Here they paused a mo- 
ment, and looking back they saw the 
ghost float out of the house and pass 
away along the western road, and then 
the whole party crept back into the 
shadow of the woods. 

So badly frightened were most of 
them that nearly an hour passed before 
the leaders could persuade them to try 
again. At last, however, Tom Simpson 
and one or two others, by dint of threats 
and reproaches and by a plentiful use of 
whiskey with which they were well sup- 
plied, got them together for a second at- 
tempt. This time the whole party ad- 
vanced to the attack. Again the beating 


THE ghost of oak ridge 129 

on the door and; again the voice from 
above, “W’at yo’ wan’, men? Go ’long 
’way from hyah an’ don’ trouble Doc’ 
Ben.” 

But maddened by the remembrance of 
their repulse and by the whiskey they had 
drunk, the lynchers waited for no fur- 
ther parley, but surged against the door, 
which easily yielded. With a rush they 
were up stairs in a moment, and there, 
against the wall, they saw by the torch’s 
glare the old man standing like a wild 
thing at bay, while on the bed at his 
side — oh, God ! what did it mean ?■ — with 
the awful stillness of death upon her, lay 
a little girl — and the child’s face and 
hands were white. 

For a moment the lynchers stood 
astounded and silent, and then Tom 
Simpson spoke: 

“You damned old villain, what’s this? 


9 


130 WHEN HEARTS were: TRUE 

Where did that little girl come from? 
What are you doin’ with ’er here ? What 
killed ’er?” 

“Hit’s all right, seh, hit’s all right; 
I’se jes’ been keepin’ cyah o’ her fur — 
fur somebody, an’ she’s hed de fever an’ 
she on’y die erwhile ago. She ain’ col’ 
yit.” 

“You lie, you killed her! Where did 
you get ’er? Whose child was she?” 

“I cyahn’ tell yo’, ’fo’ Gawd I cyahn’! 
but hit’s all right, mens; hit’s all right.” 

“All right, is it? We’ll see about that; 
bring him along, fellers, mebbe he’ll talk 
when he gets the rope round his neck. 
And you,” he added turning to Aunt 
Charlotte, who was crouching in a cor- 
ner, “stay here till we come back, and if 
we find out that you had anything to do 
with it, we’ll hang you too.” 

With a wild cry the old woman threw 
herself toward him. 


the ghost oe oak ridge 13 1 

“Yo’ don’ mean hit, seh, yo’ cyahn’ 
mean hit; yo’ wouldn’ hu’t meh ole man; 
he don’ mean nuttin’ by all his voodooin’ ; 
hit’s all right, de chile b’long hyah. Oh ! 
my Gawd! don’ tek ’im ’way laik dat; 
don’, don’, he ain’t — ” But Tom Simp- 
son struck her down with a blow of his 
fist just as old Ben, with the rope already 
around his neck, was hurried from the 
room. 

IV 

Judge Berkeley sat in his library be- 
fore a blazing wood fire, and looked with 
wearied intentness at the flames which 
brought out strongly the deep lines that 
care and heartache had written upon his 
handsome old face. Nearly sixty years 
had passed since he, a little child, had 
sat in this same place and built fairy 
castles in the glowing embers, and 
dreamed day dreams as the evening came 


132 when hearts WERE True 

on. Alas ! for the child’s dreams, for he 
had found life a weary struggle, and now 
he was facing the end almost alone. 

The wife had gone first, — the tender, 
loving wife who was always the same to 
him, always his help and comfort, — and 
with her death a great emptiness had 
come into his life. And then his daugh- 
ter had gone — not died, ah no! but gone 
away from him, perhaps forever. And 
there among the blazing logs her face 
grew distinct, her face as he had seen it 
last, proud, dtefiant, beautiful. All un- 
heeded the hours passed by, until, long 
after the clock had struck ten, a step on 
the stair aroused him from his reverie 
and the next minute his son entered the 
room. 

“Well, father, I was down at the Oak 
Ridge Settlement this afternoon,” he 
said, speaking slowly and brokenly as one 
speaks of unpleasant things. 


THE GHOST OF OAK RIDGE 133 

“And how is the fever ?” asked the 
elder man. 

“Worse than ever,” was the reply; 
“two deaths yesterday; medicine doesn’t 
seem to break it at all. I shall lose my 
reputation if this thing keeps up. But 
there is something worse than the fever 
down there.” 

“Worse than the fever?” repeated his 
father in an incredulous sort of way. 

“Yes, much worse,” returned the 
young man warmly, “and it’s something 
that concerns both you and me closely — 
you as a judge of the district — both of 
us as law-abiding citizens. There is 
danger of a lynching down there, unless 
we do something to-morrow to prevent 
it, and the victim will be poor old — ” 

The sentence was never finished, for 
at that moment the door was thrown 
violently open and a cry as of a hunted 
thing filled the room. Father and son 


134 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 


sprang to their feet and saw standing be- 
fore them, her hair loose upon her 
shoulders, her hands outstretched to 

them, a woman dressed all in white. 

For a moment she stood thus, and 

then, “Oh, help!” she cried, “my baby 
is dying and the lynchers are after Uncle 
Ben! Your horses, quick, or it will be 
too late!” and then dropped in a heap 
upon the floor. 


V 

Under a large tree, with his hands tied 
behind him and with the cruel rope 
around his neck, Uncle Ben stood facing 
his enemies, who, mad with drink, 
scowled upon him and cursed him as the 
cause of all their troubles. At last all 
was ready and Tom Simpson spoke: 

“Now then, we're goin’ to hang you, 
and if you've got anything to say about 
that child, make it short!” 


TH £ GHOST Otf OAK RIDGE) I35 

A slight shiver, though not of fear, 
shook the old voodoo’s body, then he 
spoke — spoke slowly, as if trying to gain 
time: 

“Well, mens, yo’ all ’members meh 
young Mistiss — Miss Marg’et, an’ yo’ 
know how sweet she wuz an’ how she use’ 
to come down hyah to see me an’ ’er 
mammy. But she proud, too, an’ laik to 
hev ’er own way jes’ laik ’er pa; an’ so, 
when he fo’bid dat young man de house, 
whah hed come to town ’bout three mon’s 
befo’ an’ hed tuck sich p’tic’lar notice o’ 
Miss Marg’et uver sence, an’ whah no- 
body didn’ know nuttin’ ’bout — she jes’ 
up an’ run ’way wid ’im. 

“ ’Bout a y’ah pahss, an’ den one night 
I heah a knock at de do’ o’ meh cabin. I 
open hit, an’ dyah, ’fo’ Gawd, wuz a 
ghostess, all dress’ in white, an’ I mos’ 
drap I so — ” 


136 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

“Sh! what’s that?” exclaimed Sam 
Williams. 

A sound came to their ears through 
the still night — a sound such as a muffled 
drum beaten rapidly might make. It 
seemed to be somewhere on the other 
side of the strip of heavy woods which 
lay between them and their homes. As 
they listened it grew fainter and fainter 
until at last it died away. 

“Hurry up,” said Tom Simpson un- 
easily, “this here ain’t no picnic party.” 

“Well, seh,” the old darky went on, 
“hit wuz Miss Marg’et; an’ what yo’ 
reckon? De man she hed done run off 
an’ mah’y hed anurr wife all de time. 
Miss Marg’et fin’ hit out one day an’ she 
lef’ ’im. She too proud to go back to ’er 
pa, so she come to ’er mammy an’ Unc’ 
Ben. 

“Den she play ghos’ an’ I tuk to voo- 
dooin’ so ez to keep folks ’way f’um de 


THE GHOST OF OAK RIDGE 137 

cabin; an’ time we got ’em all skeered, 
de baby wuz bo’n. We ain’ need no doc- 
tor, ’ca’se Charlotte a reg’lar lady’s nuss 
an’ she bring Miss Marg’et thoo all 
right. Hit sut’ney wuz pitiful to see de 
way meh young Mistiss love dat baby. 
Hit didn’ hev no daddy, but she love hit 
all de mo’ on dat recount, I think. Well, 
hit grow fine fur mo’ dan two y’ar an’ 
den hit ketch de fever. We done all we 
could, but ’twarn’ no use, an’ so, to-night, 
Miss Marg’et meek up her min’ to go an’ 
git her brurr to come an’ see de po’ liT 
baby. Yo’ see, she hed done furgit her- 
se’f an’ all de shame she hed suffer ’ca’se 
her chile so sick. An’ she wuz jes’ 
startin’ when she heah yo’ all cornin’ de 
fust time, an’ she skeer yo’ off. De baby 
mus’ ’a’ been wuss dan we thought fur 
hit die in Charlotte’s ahms befo’ Miss 
Marg’et been gone er half hour. 

“An’ den yo’ all breck in de house an’ 


138 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

dreg me out hyah. An’ ef yo’se boun’ 
to hang me, Fse ready; but don’ hu’t de 
ole ooman no mo’. Leave her wid de 
chile till Miss Marg’et come; she say she 
oon’ be long” — this wistfully, almost 
hopefully. “Now Fse done, an’ what Fse 
tole yo’ is de Gawd’s troof.” 

The old man stopped and looked 
piteously at his captors. But there was 
no sympathy in those drunken, glaring 
eyes; no drawing back of those hands 
eager for his blood. He had hardly 
spoken the last word when three or four 
of them began to pull upon the rope, and 
in a moment, with a horrible, gurgling 
sound, the old voodoo’s body rose in the 
air, twisting and turning as the rope 
straightened. With yells and curses 
they gathered round the quivering form. 

Suddenly there came a measured sound 
of horses’ hoofs striking the ground, faint 
at first, but in a moment growing loud; 


THE GHOST OE OAK RIDGE 139 

a gleam of pistols in the moonlight; Judge 
Berkeley’s voice ringing clear and loud: 
“Hold, you cowards, or we’ll shoot you 
down!” — and then two riders urged their 
panting horses among the lynchers, who 
scattered in all directions; while a third, 
a woman all in white, sprang to the 
ground, and threw herself upon the now 
prostrate but still breathing body of the 
man at once her slave and savior. 

Still the moon floods the Oak Ridge 
Settlement with her soft light and out- 
side the voodoo’s cabin all is peace again ; 
within, a mother bends in awful agony 
over her dead and nameless child; but 
the strong arm of her father is around 
her, and as the night wears on she turns 
to him as in the old days, and, like a little 
child, sobs out her pain upon his breast. 
And then the old man with the black face 
and the white soul, who has so nearly suf- 


140 WHEN HEARTS WERE TRUE 

fered death because of his great love for 
his fair young mistress, crosses the room 
to her side and says with a trembling 
voice : 

“Yo’ mus’n’ worry no mo’, Miss 
Marg’et, fur hit’s all right now. Yo’ 
pa done got yo’ back ag’in an’ de baby 
restin’ wid de good L,awd, ’ca’se He 
know dat hit bes’ fur de liT gal not to 
stay hyah.” 

And Margaret Berkeley speaks no 
word, but thanks him with a look from 
her beautiful eyes, into which a great 
and lasting peace has come. 























I 




V 




mu ' 7 1807 



